Fallout 3: Mutatis Mutandis
by commandocucumber
Summary: The final part of the Modus Operandi trilogy. Brutus and his mutants make their play for the capital wasteland in the last chapter of a war 116 years in the making.
1. Chapter 1

Mutatis Mutandis 1

An enormous hand with rough, dry fingers gripped Jason's chin, turning his head this way and that, giving it a thorough examination.

"Fascinating." A deep voice rumbled. "What was done to you would have resulted in most Normals quite literally coming apart at the seams. Your regenerative capabilities are extremely impressive. Congratulations."

It let go, and Jason's head flopped back down. He heard shuffling as a large shape moved around the room. More sounds began to filter through. He could hear the distant heavy thudding footsteps of Supermutants. Their guttural jeers and laughter rang in his ears, making him burn with impotent rage. He started to struggle against his bonds, but it was useless. His captors had strung him up between two enormous pieces of angle iron, his arms spread wide, toes barely brushing the surface of the ground. His legs had been tied together, and anchored to the floor. Even if he had possessed the leverage, he lacked the strength. Even after he had recovered from the explosion, Brutus' brutal beating was taking a long time to heal, and Jason's body was not nearly finished.

Jason opened his eyes and stared blearily at his surroundings. The majority of the room was in shadow, with Jason's tiny circle illuminated with a faint light. Only enough to give shape and a little color to the darkness. But he knew where he was. He had killed his first Enclave soldier here. He had watched his own father die only a few floors above his head. He had fought and bled and suffered for this place, now a mausoleum for all of humanity's futile efforts to overcome the apocalypse.

"I don't know what destroying one stronghold was trying to accomplish, Wanderer." The mutant's voice echoed through the shadows, accompanied by the sound of dripping water. "Was it a suicide run? Did you want to give Jackrum's pathetic army a fighting chance? Had you intended to kill me? That would make sense. But even if you had managed against all odds, the wasteland would still be lost. The Citadel is still rubble, your precious Brotherhood has been broken, routed, hunted and slaughtered to the last man. Megaton is a ghost town. Rivet City is under siege, and it will fall any day now. Oasis has been burned to the ground. Even those few gathered in Springvale will soon be destroyed. As soon as I'm done here I will claim all of Jackrum's refugees, and slaughter his Talon Company. Even your friends in Vault 101 won't be safe. My dream, my Master's dream, is reality, Wanderer, despite your best-laid plans."

The dark-skinned mutant stepped into the light, its enormous, bulky form throwing Jason into shadow. The mutant readied a syringe, flicking the end gently to force out the bubbles. "I suspect you have no clue as to the significance this moment holds for our species."

"Fuck you!" Jason spat weakly.

The mutant seemed to take no notice. "Do you know the name Albert Cole, Wanderer?" It asked gently, pulling a medical tray forward. "I don't know where he is now, or even if he is still alive. It is long past his time, yet he may be still; he was as twisted a creature as you. Another child of the atom. I was there, Wanderer. At Mariposa when he destroyed everything we had worked so hard to build. My Master's plans were laid to ruin, making way for the NCR and all that came after. Only Casey Jones, Myself and a few others made it out." It grinned at the syringe. "And now, after a century, the tables have finally turned. I was given the secret of the FEV II virus. In this syringe is the next step in Mutant evolution. It will be injected into every living human we have captured. And we will be free of you, able to reproduce on our own, and build a world for ourselves. We will reach our goal of unity. One goal. One master race. One able to survive, or even thrive in the wasteland. As long as there are differences, we will tear ourselves apart fighting each other. No longer, Wanderer, for this will be the age of mutants. It starts with you."

He slid the thin needle into Jason's limp arm. "Mutatis Mutandis, Wanderer. All the necessary changes have been made."

* * *

><p><strong>In Medias Res. Consider this a teaser trailer for what's to come.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

Mutatis Mutandis 2

**Hello to returning readers. I'm glad to see you all back again for the final part of the Modus Operandi Trilogy. To all the new readers out there, welcome to the fold. I'm looking forward to this one. It'll hopefully be one hell of a wild ride. **

**The time has come, and so without further ado…**

* * *

><p>...Three Weeks Earlier...<p>

* * *

><p>Sarah stared across the flickering fire, into the motherly face of Bloomseer Poplar. She said, "I didn't ask you to do this."<p>

The old woman smiled, "Yet here I sit."

Sarah glanced into the tree-filled shadows. Jason was there somewhere, she knew. He wasn't seen unless he wished to be, and she knew that she had no chance of seeing him through the darkness, nor of hearing him over the pacifying sound of rustling leaves.

She had no idea what favors he had called in to arrange the Tree-Minder's therapy sessions, and wasn't particularly keen on finding out. The vast majority of the Wanderer's dealings were exceedingly ugly affairs.

Neither had she expected the therapy to work, but it had. She was by no means cured of the night terrors, but her overall attitude had drastically improved. Perhaps it was Poplar's subtle influences, or perhaps it was simply the shock of green in the capital wasteland, but over her three-week stay in oasis, she had managed to care again. The horrors of her stay in Point Lookout had loosened their grip, giving her room to breathe, room to think. Room to_ remember _her life before she had first set foot on that god-forsaken, desolate stretch of coastline.

Jason had helped too, putting his inner drive to work on her behalf. Every morning, his eyes filled with the same iron intensity he had applied to their adventure in the Pitt, he would leave the confines of the Oasis to forage and collect news. He'd return in the late afternoons, or evening and present his findings, although she knew that the stories he brought back had been heavily filtered and sanitized for her benefit. He did everything in his extensive powers to insure that her hiatus was as care-free as possible. It was gratifying to see him work so hard for her well-being. The actions gave her a much deeper understanding of just where his 'Benevolent Savior' myth had originated.

Unfortunately, she understood the way the Lone Wanderer's mind worked: cold, and clinical. Every decision was filtered through an enormously complex calculation of gains and losses. He had something to gain by spending so much time and energy on her, she had no doubt. She also had no doubt that it was _not _sex. That wasn't important enough. Sarah wasn't entirely sure where she stood in their relationship, but his reasons were probably more closely related to the Brotherhood. Keeping her father's spirits up, perhaps.

Regardless of the reason, he had dropped everything to take her up north to Oasis. The shock of plantlife had been a harsh one. A stunning blow to everything she imagined the Capital Wasteland to be, and exactly the sign of hope she had needed. The idea that the world would be green within her lifetime… it was powerful. Enough to make her believe again.

Poplar held out a wooden cup.

"Again?" Sarah asked.

The old woman nodded.

Sarah sighed and took the glass. The problem was her dreams, Poplar had concluded. That was where her issues originated. That was where her own energies had to be focused. To that end, she had presented Sarah with the Tree-Minder's sap. She knew what it would do. Jason had had her drink it almost the moment they'd set foot in the place.

She raised the glass to her lips and began to sip the thick fluid, feeling the now familiar warm rush, and the tingling in her extremities. Her vision blurred, and she felt her head grow heavy.

* * *

><p>Jason Howlett, the Lone Wanderer, watched as the blonde woman slowly drank the liquid. She sat still for a few moments, then lay back on the heavy wooden slats of the central gazebo. As happened every night, Poplar moved around to her head and stayed there, her own head bowed, eyes shut.<p>

Bloomseer Poplar had a …talent. Jason wasn't quite sure where it came from, or how she was able to use it, but she had been able to predict - with startling accuracy- some aspect of almost every single one of his adventures. He hadn't been raised to believe in the supernatural. Ghosts, goblins, and psychics… but he did know that there were things in the world which he did not understand, and he knew in his gut that if anyone had a chance of getting to the bottom of Sarah Lyons' unusual condition, it was Bloomseer Poplar.

He watched the two of them for a few minutes. Visually it was not a particularly interesting event. Sarah was spread out on the slats, lost in a drug-induced haze. Poplar would crouch over the woman and shut her eyes, locked in her own trance. He wasn't entirely sure where the two of them went, but it was best to leave them alone.

He slipped off into the darkness and reappeared outside a nearby wooden gate, surprising the guard.

"Linden." Jason nodded at the brown-robed figure.

The man stepped aside respectfully, letting him through.

Jason stepped into the central glade of the Oasis. The air was fresh, and his feet splashed in pools of cool water as he walked to the central tree. He sat back against the lonesome, twisted growth and adjusted his red bandana, cursing the fact that he'd been forced to cut and dye his blonde hair. It was growing back, sure enough, but he had rather taken to the blast-back look in combination with the red bandana. Anything shorter was uncomfortable.

"How is the lady doing?" a dry voice asked in a slow, absentminded drawl. If a watcher had been looking closely, they would have noticed the strangely shaped knot in the tree he was leaning against, and the way it appeared to move whenever the dry voice spoke.

"Getting better." Jason replied. "Thank you for talking to Poplar."

"Orderin' her's more like. 'Bout that, it's wearing her out, you know." The voice told him sadly. "She was telling me this mornin' she's worried it's gonna kill her."

Jason shrugged and pulled a sheaf of papers out from under his brown duster. He said, "It might."

"That's awful cold'o ya." The voice admonished.

"Bloomseer Poplar is valuable to the Tree-minders, but inconsequential to the wasteland." Jason replied. "Sarah Lyons is important to the well-being of the Brotherhood. She gets priority."

"Is that all?"

"Almost." Jason licked a finger and flipped open the front page of the papers. The title was typed in large, blocky print:

**#315A- Mariposa Incident Report **

**High Elder: Rhombus**

**Master Scribe: Vree**

"Almost?" The voice asked.

"She's a close friend of mine."

"Close?"

"Close enough." Jason snapped, his tone demonstrating that the conversation had ended. He turned his attention back to the sheaf of papers. Rothchild's report on 'Mariposa'.

The report itself was a long-winded affair, with the bulk of the papers being taken up by technical data. Schematics, technical data, and scientific studies including an autopsy report by the Scribe Vree. Jason found himself scanning through them in a bored stupor until he reached the report itself. It wasn't what he had been expecting; a professionally written, Official Report done in the Brotherhood's usual blustering style. What he received was a heartfelt memoir which hit far too close to home, dredging up emotions and memories he himself had buried years before.

* * *

><p><em>The one good thing about growing old is that you get your way. The new leaders of the Tribe (they refuse to call themselves Elders until I have passed on, whenever that will be. I don't know. I've been through so much that I sometimes feel about as human as the master.) want me to record my knowledge for future generations. Bah! What knowledge they need is to be found with sweat and blood, not some letters on a page. But the future is a great unknown, and they may have a point. To make them happy, I've written down what I feel will be important. (The important words being "what I feel will be important.")<br>_

_They want me to write my memoirs. Fine. I'll do it. But as the song goes, I'll do it my way. And I'm old enough that I will get my way._

_**The War**__  
>I know little about the War, but it doesn't really matter. A lot of people died when a lot of atomic bombs went off and nearly destroyed the world. If you don't know what an atomic bomb is, then imagine the worst thing possible. Atomic bombs were worse than that.<em>

_**The Vaults**__  
>Like all of the original members of the Tribe, I came from the Vaults. Before the War, the government of the United States, which numbered in the thousands of villages, and had many, many tribesman per village, paid to have these huge holes dug in mountains and huts of metal and stone built underground. There were many Vaults. Some were close to cities, and some far away. These Vaults were to be used as safe places in case of atomic war. As you may guess, when the War came your ancestors made it to a Vault, Vault 13 to be specific.<br>_

Jason's mind was shunted sideways. He felt as though he were once again witnessing the outside world for the first time, four years ago. The same shock ran through him, mind, body, and soul.

_For several generations, your ancestors and mine lived within the Vault. As best as they could figure, it was too dangerous to try and leave the Vault. They grew their own food, recycled their waste, read, worked, slept, had families, and even purified the necessary water within the Vault. I was born in the creche, and was raised by the community (and a robot). It was a good life, but all good things come to an end. About three generations after the War, the water-purification chip the Vault relied on to create the fresh water broke down. All the spare parts were missing or busted, and without the water-chip the Vault was doomed. Something had to be done._

_The Overseer gathered the healthy of us between a certain age and made us draw straws. Guess what? I drew the short one. Wouldn't be much of story if I didn't, would it?_

_I left the Vault the next day._

_**Life on the Outside**_

_My first few days were harrowing to say the least. I fought off some giant mutant rats that were more interested in eating me than they should have been.  
>My only clue was the location of another Vault, Number 15. I spent a couple of days stumbling through the desert before I came upon a small settlement. I stopped there for help, and encountered the little town called Shady Sands. I helped them, and they helped me. Understand that survival requires that you work together, even with people you may not trust. I did earn the trust, however, of two prominent citizens of Shady Sands - Tandi, and her father, Aradesh.<em>

_With their knowledge, and the help of a man called Ian, I continued on my way to Vault 15. The ruins of Vault 15, to be more specific. Ravaged by the elements, scavengers, and time itself, Vault 15 was no help for my people. The control room that contained their water-chip was buried under tons of fallen rock, and I had to move on._

_After a small problem with some raiders, who would continue for years to plague not only myself, but the Tribe, I found myself in Junktown. It was here that I learned the most important rule of all: doing a good thing sometimes means being a very bad person. My memories of Junktown are tainted, and I feel no remorse for my actions in that place. It was there that I came across a dog, who adopted me and was my faithful friend from there on. I miss Dogmeat to this day._

_While Junktown was a city of traders (and traitors), it did not have a water-chip. I was not desperate yet, as there was still time for me to recover the chip and return to my home, but I needed to move on. Fortunately, they pointed me in the direction of the hub, the largest city in the wasteland._

_The Hub was a larger city than both Junktown and Shady Sands combined. You could drop the Vault in there, and you probably would not notice. But the people of the Hub had no life, and it was a desolate place just the same. It eased my mind, however, to hire some merchants to bring water to the Vault. Looking back, it was probably a mistake to do so, but I was still innocent of the evils that lurked through the ruins of civilization. A small clue led me to the city of the ghouls, the place they called Necropolis. It was there that I encountered large mutants, armed with weapons of an unknown origin. It is with heavy sadness that I say that Ian lost his life in the city of the dead. A Supermutant burned him to death with a flamethrower. The passage of time is no proof against the memory of burning flesh. His sacrifice was not in vain, as I did find the water-chip buried beneath the city. It was with easier steps that I returned to Vault 13._

_**Enemies of the State**  
>While the Overseer was obviously happy to see me returned to the Vault, alive and with the necessary water-chip, he was distraught at my description of the super mutants. It is here that I realized the mistake I had made with the water-merchants. I had pointed them, and others, in the direction of our home. Without the protection of anonymity, the Vault could easily have been destroyed. The knowledge of the fate of Vault 15 did not help. The Overseer tasked me with a new mission. Find and destroy the danger of the super mutants. Once again, I left the Vault. This time, it was easier on my heart. Looking back now, I realize it was also the first time I should have seen the true hearts of the other vault dwellers and the Overseer.<em>

_I returned to the Hub, looking for clues. Some time was spent there, and I discovered a shady underworld amongst the hustle and bustle of that large city. They thought they could manipulate me, but I proved them wrong and used the crooks instead. I did rescue a young man who belonged to the Brotherhood of Steel. A few trouble-makers tried to stop me, but I learned much about survival since leaving the Vault._

_It was in my best interest to leave town for a while. I journeyed to this Brotherhood. Thinking they would have the knowledge I sought, I tried to join them. They required me to go on a quest before they would let me in. Thinking it would be a short and easy quest, I agreed and set off for the place they called the Glow. The horror of atomic war was never so obvious to me until then. The Brotherhood was surprised to see me, and even more surprised to see that I had not only survived their quest, but succeeded. They gave me the information I required and some of their technology, and I set off in search of the Boneyard. On my way, I took a detour and stopped by Necropolis in order to see some old friends. Unfortunately, that place was now truly the city of the dead. All the ghouls had been slaughtered. Large mutants roamed the streets. I found one survivor who told me that the mutants had attacked shortly after I had left. Before he died, the ghoul told me that the mutants were looking for pure strain humans, and one in particular. The ghoul's description of the mutants' special target fit me perfectly. It was with a heavy heart and a cold burning on my soul that I continued on to Boneyard._

_**The Master**_

_The city of Los Angeles must have been the largest in the world before the War. The LA Boneyard stretched forever, the skeletons of buildings lying under the hot sun. Not even the wind entered this dead city._

_I found many enemies, and a few friends, in the Boneyard. I killed when necessary and learned more about the nature of my true foes. Deep under the ground, I found an evil that was behind the mutants and their army. Within a dark and forbidding Vault, where the walls dripped with human flesh, and the screaming of dying echoed through the halls, I found many evil creatures and mutants. I also lost my left eye._

_Walking among the misshapen ones, I killed one of their servants and took his clothing. Hidden from casual searches, I made my way to the bottom of the Vault. The deeper into the Vault I went, the more gruesome the journey. More and more flesh was to be found, integrated into the very walls. The worst part of it was that the flesh was still alive, and even aware of my presence._

_After a while, I found myself in the presence of the most hideous sight yet. I still cannot bring myself to write of this discovery, but let it be known that when I left, the Beast was dead and the Master of the mutant army was no more._

_**The Vats**_  
><em>My job was still not finished, for I still had one task remaining. The Master had literally built his army one mutant at a time. Humans, preferably with little radiation damage, were to be captured and sent to the Vats. There they were dipped in something called FEV, which transformed them into the large, grotesque mutants.<em>

_I had to find these Vats, and put them out of action as well, lest another take the Master's place and continue to build the mutant army. Fortunately, my friends at the Brotherhood had a few clues, and helped me reach my goal. Invading the Vats, I came across more mutants and robots. None could stand in my way. I had a mission. I had a goal. I had a really large gun. It was here that Dogmeat fell, a victim of a powerful energy forcefield. I miss that dog. I destroyed the Vats that day, and with it, the mutant army. The last I heard, they splintered and disappeared into the desert._

_**My Return to Vault 13**__  
>I was not treated to a hero's welcome when I returned to Vault 13. The Overseer met me outside the massive Vault door, and told me point blank that while my services to the Vault will always be remembered, he could no longer trust me or what I had become. He said something along the lines that I had saved the Vault, and now I must leave. Bastard.<em>

_So, I left._

Jason stared down at the page, his heart pounding. He wasn't alone! His story was not the only one. Someone else had gone through it! Someone else had had their life stolen! He wasn't alone! He wasn't the first! Hope and anger coursed through him. Indignation on the writer's behalf, and his own. He found himself trying to imagine the narrator's face. Someone grizzled as only the true travelers were. Beset by age, but carrying a quiet dignity and weight of vast knowledge. All the images he could conjure up looked somewhat like his father, James.

He felt the weight of history bearing down on his shoulders. Somehow his own story sounded like a repetition. An echo of some greater tale. He read onwards frantically, taking in every word, feeling the full impact as each paragraph embedded itself in his soul.

_The days and weeks that followed were hard on me. I had met few true friends outside the Vault, and they had died following me. Now, my family had kicked me out and said that I could never return. I screamed. I cried. Slowly I came to realize that the Overseer may have been correct. I had changed. Life outside the Vault was different, and now I, too, was different. But I have never forgiven him for doing what he did to me.  
><em>

Jason nodded. That was it. Exactly it. Just that simple. Amata, and her bastard father.

_I wandered the desert, but never moved far from the mountains that shielded the Vault from the rest of the world. Perhaps I wanted to return, and force my way in, or plead for them to take me back. Fortunately, it did not come to that. I found a few wretched souls, a small group of Vault dwellers, who upon hearing of what happened to me, had decided to leave the Vault and join my side. They knew little of the outside world, and would have died if it were not for my assistance.  
><em>

The paragraph brought back memories of his own deepest, inner fantasies. Jason had dreamed of that occurrence. That one day, the Vault would open, and everything he had said and done would be somehow vindicated. He would be able to help them, be of use, and once again be accepted.

_Together, our little group moved north, away from the Vault, and away from that old life. Slowly, I taught them what experience had taught me. And together we learned to thrive._

_**The Tribe**__  
>Over time, our ragtag group turned into a tribe. I fell in love with one of them, and we raised a family, like all of our tribes people.<em>

_We founded the Village, beyond the great cliff. It is a secure home thanks to our hard work. We would send scouts back towards the Vault, to help others who thought like ourselves, but that slowly came to an end. We no longer head in that direction. I often wonder what became of Vault 13, and the other Vaults, but I never had the time to go exploring again. Perhaps I will, one day._

_I taught the others the skills they would need to survive and grow strong. Hunting, farming and other skills to feed us. Engineering and science to build our homes. Fighting to protect what was ours._

_My love and I led the village and the Tribe. The Tribe grew, and grew strong with our help. But all things come to an end. Our sons and daughters are now the leaders. I'm sure that the Tribe will continue to grow strong under the leadership of our children._

_My love perished years ago, and not a day goes by that I do not think of Pat's face. I see it every time I look at our children. This journal is our legacy to them, to their children, and to the rest of the Tribe. That is my story, and I am sticking to it._

_-Albert Cole, The Wanderer_

* * *

><p><strong>The memoirs do exist. I believe they are part of the intro to Fallout 2. The mentioned autopsy report exists too, if you feel like finding it. It was about darned time he read the report. it's been sitting there since the end of Modus Operandi...<strong>

**Alright, so I realize that Sarah's recovery might be a little bit of a let-down, especially considering where she was at the end of Aqua Vitae. But there are only so many ways one can write "And then she got a little bit better…". I also warned that I'd be skipping a little bit forward. The only thing we're missing out on is her seeing oasis for the first time. Something tells me that it would have more impact if she hadn't just got back from Point Lookout. **

**Besides, I have a chapter or two to flesh that part out more. If myself or Krow Blood (this series' co-author, and my partner in crime) comes up with something that gets the proverbial juices flowing, I'll see what I can do. But for now, we're passing over that particular section, and skipping straight to the juicier bits.**


	3. Chapter 3

Mutatis Mutandis 3

Sarah awoke to the sound of birds chirping. In combination with the rustling leaves, it formed an unfamiliar ambience which alarmed her momentarily, until her memories flowed back. She was always a little slow after her forced departures from the land of the conscious, and it took a moment to spool her mind up.

Strangely enough given the amount of time she had spent wandering the capital wasteland, she found that waking up with the open sky above her head was an unusual occurrence. She had spent her teenage and adult life in the capital wasteland, fighting through the D.C. ruins, where there was usually either a handy building or a subway tunnel to duck into when it was absolutely necessary to rest. Sleeping outdoors anywhere in the capital wasteland was not a good idea. There were too many hostile creatures to make it worth the risk. Indoors, in shifts. That was the way to go.

As it was, the moment she opened her eyes and saw the sky above her head, she had to stop herself from obeying years of training and experience by scrambling for a weapon, and a wall to take cover behind. The sky a was spotless and brilliant azure painting, framed by the leaves of the gently swaying treetops; a calming sight.

She forced herself to calm down, and reflected that the reaction was a good sign; it meant that she was coming back. She had woken up under the open sky plenty of times during her stay in Point Lookout, but things had been so bleak that Security was no more a worthless adjective. She was back in the capital wasteland. Things were different here.

Blue smoke drifted above her head, and she smelled a comforting wood fire and fresh, clean air. She sat up and took a look around the now familiar glades of Oasis. The Treeminders had moved her away from the central gazebo and onto a makeshift bed, shaped from sticks and covered in a pile of leaves. The arrangement was no less comfortable than the lumpy mattresses of the citadel.

Jason was sitting nearby, using his combat knife to etch designs into a piece of wood. His duster had been spread out under him, a shield against the morning dew. The heavily condensed combat armour he wore underneath it had also been removed, and he was bared down to a simple black undershirt, and grey canvas pants with worn, knee-high motorcycle boots.

He paused in his task when his cold blue eyes met her gaze, and reached into a pack which was lying beside him. He pulled out a packet of snack cakes and tossing it to her. It bounced off an exposed root and came to rest in the grass a foot from her makeshift bed.

"Eat." He suggested.

Sarah picked up the packet and leaned against the foot of the nearest tree, tearing open the old plastic container. It was wet and slippery, a result of the morning dew which covered the grass. The cool feel of fresh water on her skin made Sarah thirsty, and as if he had read her mind, a canteen full of fresh water landed in the grass, almost on exactly the same spot. The Wanderer resumed his work, whittling away the grey bark, exposing the stark white of fresh wood to the bright morning sunlight.

"Good morning." Sarah said.

"Same to you." He dug the point of his combat knife into the bark, scraping out a hole. "You didn't scream last night."

"I didn't?"

"Nope." He turned the stick over and began a similar process on the other side, gouging a hole straight through the wood. "Plenty of groaning, but no screams." Beyond his relaxed figure, she could see the rest of Oasis waking up. The hooded figures bustled through the trees, setting about their morning ablutions.

"Good." She said, pulling out one of the snack cakes. It crumbled in her fingers, a victim of Jason's rough treatment. She ate it anyway, using the water to break up the dry, abrasive texture.

"I think we're going to leave today." He said. He raised the whittled work to his lips and blew on it harshly, clearing out a fair amount of sawdust. "I'm going to take you home."

The news didn't come as any particular kind of shock to her, though she wasn't particularly pleased about it either. Her departure from the brotherhood had been a less than graceful affair, resulting in the alienation of most of her friends as well as her own father. She wasn't sure how they'd react to her return. Indeed her forced hiatus with the Wanderer had been instigated at the behest of none other than Star-Paladin Glade, her closest friend, and longest-serving member of the Lyon's Pride. He had done it not to spite her, but out of well-justified fear for her mental state.

Her expedition to Point Lookout had cost the lives of nearly a dozen scribes, and several Brotherhood knights including two valued members of the Lyons' Pride. Only Sarah and Rothchild had managed to make it out alive, and managing that had been a miracle. The trip, though they accomplished their objectives, had been a disaster. Proving she was once again worthy of wearing Power-Armour was not going to be easy.

On top of that, Oasis had lived up to its namesake; a place of remarkable peace and calm. The small forest was well hidden, surrounded on all sides by the inner walls of a great rock circle blocking all access save for a winding, hidden little path, barely large enough in places to allow a single man passage. Most of the dangerous creatures couldn't even get to it. Add to that the fact that it lay in the northern wilderness, where human raiders and supermutants rarely if ever set foot… it was probably the safest area in the entire wasteland.

Even in the most secure places in the southern capital wasteland, the peace was a manufactured one, and therein lay the problem. Manufactured sanctuaries required constant, often violent defense. What was built could be, and often was, torn down. While in the Citadel, or Rivet City, physical safety was next to assured. But there were always lingering doubts. Oasis offered something more. Something better: spiritual safety as well. A human being could truly rest here, mind, body, and soul.

Sarah didn't particularly want to leave, but in truth, neither of them could stay there forever. The Wanderer was right. It was time to head back.

* * *

><p>He helped her pack quite soon after she had finished eating, and allowed her to say her goodbyes to the Treeminders. She had not grown to know them particularly well, but she at least knew Branchtender Linden, who was former member of the Brotherhood Outcasts. Though she hadn't known him beforehand as anything more than a face in a hallway, he certainly knew her, and had greeted her by name when she arrived. Their leader was an elderly man named Treefather Birch, who had spoken less than a dozen words to her the entire visit, with the exception of the first night, when he'd sworn her to secrecy. And of course there was Bloomseer Poplar, who was mysteriously absent from the proceedings.<p>

The Treeminders were polite, in their own quiet way, but early in her stay, it had become very obvious that they were more interested in living up to their name than in getting to know her. Even Linden was distant. She was a visitor. A temporary burden on their peaceful habitat, accepted only because the Wanderer had asked. Jason Howlett was very well respected among them, though no one, himself included, would tell her why, and she got the feeling that he was protecting her from some disturbing piece of information. He had asked her politely to avoid the central grove of the forest, which was blocked off by a heavy wooden gate, and heavily guarded. He had been worried that whatever was inside might have exacerbated her condition. Sarah had complied quite happily; the mental breakdown which had landed her there in the first place was a direct result of knowing more than was good for her.

The farewell did not last long. It ended at the gates of Oasis. The Treeminders, with the exception of their standing guard Branchtender Maple, were standing just inside the gate. Jason and Sarah stood on the outside, adjusting their packs, and making the last minute preparations, which for the Wanderer included checking that his weapons were loaded. The Northern Wilderness was a dangerous place.

"Miss Lyons, wait!"

Sarah turned. Bloomseer Poplar brushed past the silent Treeminders and crossed through the wooden archway to stand in front of her. "It is my custom to give every visitor a gift, if you will accept it."

Sarah glanced back at Jason, who was standing a few meters down the path, watching them carefully. He gave her a tiny nod and she turned back to Poplar.

"I know bad news is never welcome, yet I beg you to heed my words."

"I'll have to hear them first." Sarah said cautiously.

"I see betrayal on your horizon, and misery also." The woman told her in a slow, deliberate voice. "Yet remember that forgiveness is the only gift greater than hope."

"Well that's… unhelpful." Sarah replied. "Who's doing the betraying, exactly? And why does forgiveness matter?"

"I've shared all I know." The woman intoned sadly.

Sarah was about to open her mouth, but bit her tongue at the last moment. Bloomseer Poplar had, afterall, expended unreasonable amounts of her time restoring Sarah to working order. Pushing the poor old woman would be the very worst form of rude. She already looked haggard enough. Indeed though she tried to hide it, her relief at their departure was obvious.

As if reading her mind, Jason said, "Don't push it, Sarah." He walked up to them and turned to Poplar. "Do you see anything for me?"

The woman frowned. "I see worthy companions and a worthy foe. You stand at the brink of a second apocalypse. When the time comes, remember who you are and why you fight."

"Thank you Poplar." Jason said gravely. "Sarah? Shall we?"

They started down the narrow passage, Sarah locked in deep thought. Jason immediately sank into his usual alert silence; what Sarah tended to think of as his 'Wanderer Mode'. His eyes were constantly scanning his surroundings. His face was blank, but underneath it, she knew his mind was hard at work. She took her time, walking slowly past the last trees and bushes of Oasis. They grew more scarce with every yard, and she felt a sense of regret settle upon her shoulders. She knew she was going to miss the place.

"What did she mean by betrayal?" she asked.

"That you're going to be betrayed." Jason shrugged. "It's more than she usually gives. Poplar's prophecies never _really_ make sense until after the fact. If you even remember them by that point. They never mean quite what you think they're going to."

"But now I know someone's going to betray me. The questions are who, when and why?"

He shrugged a hunting rifle off his back and handed it to her, digging out his jet-black scoped, suppressed assault rifle; his signature weapon.

"I don't have any answers for you, Sarah." He said, softening for a moment, "but I'm glad you're asking questions."

As they turned a final corner and descended into the capital wasteland, her regret was replaced with resigned depression. The sun hung low behind them, illuminating the crumbled rail line, visible in the middle distance above the tops of the dead trees. A bent and twisted maglev train lay on the ground, far below, covered in rust and overgrown with tangled weeds.

"This way." Jason said, leading her south.

* * *

><p>Riley landed hard on a concreted floor. She fought back against the wave of nausea, and felt her consciousness waver. The taste of copper soured her pallet, and her ribs ached from the sledgehammer blow. She could hear their depraved laughter, and feel the tremors of their heavy footfalls, but she refused to open her eyes; she had seen enough. She wondered where Brick and Butch were, and whether or not their desperate gambit had worked. Everything hurt. She had never in her life endured a beating like that. She had never thought she would break. Yet she had. She no longer wanted to fight. Or to move at all. The cold floor was soothing against her bruised skin. She shivered; they had stripped her of her armour and weapons, leaving her in her underclothes. All she wished for was that they would end it quickly.<p>

Footsteps thudded past her and halted. "Master! We found…" the erratic voice paused for a second, "Four-er of dese humans! Caught tree. Killed two!"

"Find the fourth. And wake her." Said a heavy baritone voice, full of thoughtful menace. Sharply contrasting the others present in the room, it spoke in perfectly pronounced English.

Massive, toughened hands lifted her roughly by her bruised shoulders and forced her into a kneeling position. Her head was tilted back and a bucket of scum-ridden, filthy water was poured over her face. She spluttered and reflexively opened her eyes, coughing. They let her go and she landed on her hands and knees, trying to stay conscious. She found herself focusing on a narrow crack in the concrete, and the tiny bit of moss which was growing out of it.

"Look up, human." The voice prompted.

Riley obeyed. She was in a darkened rectangular room, enormous in height, but narrow in width and breadth. Its ceiling was lost in the depths of shadows. A staircase circled around behind her, leading to a door high up on one of the walls. Dozens of supermutants were quietly standing on it, watching her with crazed feral eyes.

Immediately in front of her was what could only be described as a throne, constructed of twisted steel columns and heavy concrete blocks. Savage rebar and thick bulks of angle iron spread to either side like giant demonic wings. Nets of ichor and human remains hung suspended from them, but Riley's gaze was drawn up the flight of uneven concrete steps to the lone Supermutant occupying the chaotic hodgepodge which passed for a chair.

Its skin was the first thing that came to her attention. The mutant was…strange. Unlike anything she had ever seen before. Dark blue in color, streaked with grey. It possessed weathered knuckles and a scarred face.

It stared down at her from atop the throne. It had adopted a thoughtful pose, elbow on the arm of the massive concrete chair. Its chin was in its hands, and its cold, jaundiced eyes examined her with sharp intelligence. This one was different. Not just in the physical aspects. It was smart, she knew immediately. Smarter than her. Slightly smaller in size than the regular green mutants, but it carried the weight of years of accumulated knowledge. Its experience showed through in every move it made, everywhere it looked, and every word it said. Normal mutants moved in unsteady child-like steps, and spoke in erratic shouts and grunts. Yet as this mutant rose, Riley was struck by the elegance, and fine motor control of each carefully calculated motion. She had already heard its measured baritone voice.

The monster was clad in thick plate armour fashioned crudely from the shells of cars, and the hulls of boats. An enormous sword was leaning against the throne, and Riley recognized the blade as a vertibird rotor. The mutant had used rebar to fashion vicious spiked knuckles, which it was wearing, and Riley knew that a single hit would unquestionably kill her, or any human unfortunate enough to suffer one.

The mutant stepped carefully down off the dais and took a knee in front of her, bringing its face down close to hers.

"Where is the fourth member of your mercenary group?" the Mutant asked, in perfect English.

_Donovan_… A faint hope flared in the depths of Riley's heart. _They hadn't found him yet_! Given the mutants sheer numbers, that was a miracle. The young man might have made it out! She desperately hoped so, for the sake of the wasteland. Someone had to get the news out! Riley was already dead. She knew that, had accepted it when she held the line, trying to buy him time. But the capital wasteland…if they were unprepared, their chances would be even slimmer, although in truth her hopes had been extinguish the moment her small band of Rangers had born witness to the mutant army. There had been hundreds gathered! Possibly a thousand. Certainly more than they could count.

Where had they all been hiding? Even deeper in the ruins? How many were there? And how big a fraction of their full forces had been gathered here in Takoma? If these were just the front lines… the first wave of an impending invasion… then the wasteland was doomed. Someone had to get word to the Brotherhood before it was too late.

She hoped Donovan had made it, and for the first time in her life, began to pray. Her head lolled backwards as another wave of nausea spread through her.

"Where is he?" the mutant asked again. It reached out and with a surprisingly gentle touch, supported her head, forcing her to look directly into its yellow eyes. It seemed calm, to her. Collected and purposeful as it searched her for an answer. At last it let her go and looked up at the Overlord, who had reported the incident. "I very much doubt she has any useful knowledge at all. Search the ruins. Block all major subway junctions. I want the humans to have no warning at all."

With a dumbfounded expression, the Overlord stared at its leader.

The mutant king sighed. "Find human. Fast. Kill it."

"Yeah-aha ha ha!" the Overlord roared in approval and stomped off.

The King rose and examined its subjects. "Leave us!" it ordered. "Rally the Behemoths! We march in three days!"

The collected mass roared in approval. The King stepped back and lifted the enormous sword above its head. "Unity!" it shouted.

"Unity!" the mutants responded with enthusiasm, pounding the railing until it bent.

"Unity!" The King said again, and again the audience repeated him, filling the void with a horrid wall of noise.

"Unity! Unity! Unity!"

The King lowered its sword, and Riley fell to the floor as her captors scattered. The room emptied, leaving only her and the King behind. It stared down at her. Riley had never bothered to learn how to read Supermutant expressions. If she had, she would have been surprised by the mixture of mild disinterest, and pensive pity the mutant king displayed.

It said, "What is your name, Human?"

"Just fucking kill me." She said quietly. "Get it over with."

The mutant sighed and moved back, taking a heavy seat on the lowest steps of its throne. "You are the first of the last. You should feel honored. You have just witnessed the beginning of the end for your species. A shame, to be sure, but I am at least one-hundred and seventy years old. I have watched humanity for a very long time. You are overeager and too dangerous for your own good. The great war proved that. My own existence continues to prove it. The world is too precious a place for yours to handle. We are the future. And you are the past. That is how it must be."

"However I owe you no animosity, and I am going to offer you a choice. The same choice I intend to offer every captive. The same choice I have always offered every captive. It would surprise you how many agreed. This is entirely voluntary. If you would prefer death, I will oblige."

"Just spit it out!" she groaned.

How would you like to join my army? Take the virus. Become a Supermutant. Fight beside me and my brothers, or die under our heel."

"Kill me." Riley choked, laying awkwardly on the cold concrete floor.

"As you wish." The mutant stood once again. It walked over to her, and brought its heel down on her neck.

* * *

><p><strong>My apologies for the long wait. Again. I hope it was worth it.<strong>

**I've been caught up in Mass Effect 3, writing The Fourth Option, and replaying the game. Add to that, final exams and other RL stuff, and I've had a busy month.**

**Alright, so for the new readers, if you want the full details of what happened to Sarah, you're going to have to go back a story and read Aqua Vitae.** **Don't worry, I tried to make it tolerable.** **I didn't want to spend much time in oasis. As the last scene in this chapter should indicate, there's plenty to be done.**

**Brutus' throne room does actually exist, though his throne doesn't. It's in the Takoma Industrial factory. **


	4. Chapter 4

Mutatis Mutandis 4

The Northern wilderness was rough terrain, with sudden valleys, steep hills, and unassailable cliffs which would force constant detours and course corrections. Yet Jason seemed to know where he was, even without having to check his Pipboy. He looked at home there. Far more comfortable than he ever had in the Citadel's laboratories. Sarah let her mind wander, knowing that he would see anything coming before she ever had a chance to react anyway.

They followed the rail line south for a time, past copses of tangled dead trees, and pools of irradiated muck. They were forced to pass under the snaking monolithic structure when it took a sharp turn and veered off southeast. The trip was quiet and uneventful. Reminiscent of their first trip together, albeit that journey had been in a different direction: west towards the Pitt's train tunnel and slaver encampment.

As the sun crawled higher into the sky, Sarah began to notice a marked difference in Jason's stance and bearing. Though the man always traveled in a state of heightened alertness, he began to grip his rifle a little more tightly, and scan the horizon with a worried look. Eventually he came to a dead stop, put away his assault rifle and shrugged off his sniper rifle, using the scope to examine the distant forests to the east and west.

The day was clear, and far off in the western distance, Sarah could see the grey vague silhouettes of the satellite dishes atop the distant Satcom Array pillars. Paradise Falls was somewhere south, slightly closer, but a copse of deadened trees blocked her view. The Wanderer stood for a full two minutes, searching the countryside.

Eventually Sarah could stand the suspense no longer. She tapped him on the shoulder. "Jason, what is it?"

"There's nothing here." He replied quietly, peered through the scope. "I've never traveled this easily through the north. We haven't seen a damned thing. NO radscorpions. No deathclaws. No yao guai. Not even a molerat."

"And you're complaining?" she asked. "Why don't we thank our lucky stars and move on?"

"It's just… odd." He said, lowering the sniper rifle.

"Let's keep moving." Sarah suggested.

He nodded. "I think we should pick up the pace."

* * *

><p>They broke out of the mountainous northern wastes at around nine O'clock. The terrain was of a more reasonable variance, and infinitely more negotiable. They paused for a small rest atop a slight hill. Sarah set her hunting rifle beside her and took a seat on a small boulder. She proceeded to open her canteen. Jason sat with his sniper rifle on his knees. He pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and scanned down it, as absorbed as Sarah had ever seen him. She leaned across the small gap between them, trying to read upside down.<p>

"It's the Mariposa report." He explained absently, his eyes fixed on the page. "Rothchild gave it to me before we set out."

"All of it?" she asked curiously; he was only holding two pages.

"All that matters." He replied. He stared down at it a moment longer, then handed it across to her. Sarah took it and read through the report several times, making sure she hadn't missed anything. Then she looked back up at him.

For once, Jason's shield was down. Of the cold, stoic, inhuman Wanderer, there was no trace. Just a young man, admittedly heavily armed, but she knew she was witnessing his true face. The content of the memoir had disarmed him in a way Sarah hadn't entirely believed was possible. The closest she had ever managed was during an awkward conversation in a train tunnel after they had dealt with The Pitt. Jason had told her his real name, and getting even that much out of him had been a struggle.

She smiled as she reflected on just how much the man had changed over the past few months. Her attitude was somewhat tempered by her very real awareness of her own transformation, which had taken her in almost exactly the opposite direction.

"Albert Cole…" she read.

"I wish I could have met him." Jason told her honestly. "We'd have had a hell of a lot to talk about."

"It is amazing how similar your stories are." She agreed. "I can't imagine what it must feel like, not being the only one anymore."

"I _am _the only one, though." He replied regretfully. "Look at the timestamp. That was written over a century ago. But he's remembered by name. By the Brotherhood, by his own tribe…"

"You don't think you'll be remembered?" she asked.

Jason laughed. "Until I came back with you from The Pitt, I didn't even think I'd be missed."

* * *

><p>At around eleven O'clock, they came upon another set of ruins, quite different from the occasional bombed out residences. These ruins were tightly packed, with enormous piles of grey concrete and twisted rebar. It would not have looked out of place in the least negotiable streets of downtown D.C..<p>

Jason pulled Sarah down behind the nearest crumbled wall. He directed her attention at the building across the street. The rear section had been blown out, and was strewn across the back of the property, leaving a staircase open to the air, and several doors opening onto twelve foot drops.

"That's the Germantown police station." He told her quietly. His silenced assault rifle was out, steadied against some rebar. "It used to be a refugee camp, right after the war. Now it's a Supermutant stronghold."

Sarah stared at the building and surrounding ruins with renewed caution. "Wonderful. What's the plan?"

"Stay here, and-" the Wanderer paused, staring at her. She could tell he was caught in some inner argument. Eventually he shrugged off his sniper rifle and handed it to her, looking as surprised by the action as she felt. "Circle around to the right, and keep an eye out." He said, pointing at the long row of ruined buildings. "I'm going through that back door. The Supermutants use the cells here to store their captives before they ship them off to Vault 87. I'm going to clear the inside. Just take care of anything out front. Unless it's an Overlord. In that case, just sit and wait."

Sarah stared, stunned. "Are you feeling alright, Jason? You're trusting someone else. With a plan. And a weapo-"

"Don't say it like that." He snapped, growing slightly red-faced. "I told your dad I'd learn how to work with eth Brotherhood. Besides, you survived Point Lookout. After that a couple mutants shouldn't be a big problem. Call this a trial run."

"Okay…" Sarah said slowly. "I'll do my best."

"Do your best not to get shot." He replied. "You don't heal like I do. And watch the wasteland behind you. Make sure nothing sneaks up."

"Will do. Good luck." She replied as he rose and crossed the street. He darted up the staircase, keeping low and silent, and made his way to the nearest door. Sarah slipped across the gap between the two ruined buildings and circled around the police station, keeping as close to the center of the ruins as she could, trying to keep hidden from all lines of sight, both from the station, and the surrounding wasteland. At last she found a space on a ruined second floor. She was able to peer easily at the front of the station through an old window, and her frame was hidden from the wasteland by a large concrete pillar. Balancing herself properly was an awkward maneuver, but eventually she managed to attain a comfortable position, and centered the scope's crosshairs on the camp.

The courtyard was empty, as far as she could see. Brown tents and sandbag barricades had been set up around the inner perimeter of the station, up against the wire fences which surrounded the compound. It was an impressively defaceable position, and Sarah recognized the signature angle iron and hanging bags of flesh which signaled that this was Supermutant camp. Yet there were no bulky green shapes moving from tent to tent. She could hear none of the supermutants' guttural laughter or simple speech. The camp looked completely deserted.

After about ten minutes of uneventful waiting, Jason exited the front door of the compound. He searched the buildings for her and found her within three seconds. She watched him shrug helplessly, and sling his silenced rifle over his back.

They met up on the street out front.

"Nothing." He reported, pacing anxiously. "No mutants inside. No prisoners. No supplies. Absolutely nothing."

"So what?" she asked. "Maybe they're out collecting more captives…"

"No." He replied quickly, shaking his head. "No. Even then they'd have guards for the prisoners. But there is no one and nothing in there." His face glazed over. "He made them fall back to D.C.."

"He?" Sarah demanded. "He? What 'He'? You never said anything about a 'He'!"

"Brutus. There's a smart supermutant somewhere in D.C.. He was behind the Purifier sabotage. We're expecting an attack sometime in the near future. It's a long story…" He looked around the abandoned outpost. "I guess it's a little nearer than I thought."

Sarah stared in stunned silence. "…And with all of this on the horizon, you decided to simply run off and relax with me in Oasis?"

"You're important." He replied. She made to cuff him across the head, but he dodged neatly backwards.

"That's no excuse!" she snarled.

"I don't have excuses." He replied. "I have reasons. The Brotherhood is going to need your father's leadership, and your experience. You needed fixing. Besides, _they_ asked _me_."

Sarah glared at him, ignoring the last addendum. The thought of an intelligent mutant was terrifying to her. The vast majority of the Brotherhood's strategies relied on the mutants being stupid. They would blunder angrily into killzones, ignore cover, and unwittingly do their best to make themselves obvious and easy targets. Higher intelligence was really the only advantage which the Brotherhood of Steel had ever held in the fight.

She thought of Leo, the Supermutant she had met during her first trip with Jason. That particular mutie had been a pacifist, but if even one of the others possessed the same intellect, and lacked the scruples, they could put the overtaxed Brotherhood in a very serious position indeed. Especially if they got the majority of muties to follow them. It was a dangerous and unwelcome prospect.

"I have…resources" The Wanderer explained further. "I've seen and done some… unusual things in my time. You know that better than anyone else, Sarah. I've shared all my stories with your father. Told him all I know. You've been outfitted with my enclave gear, and some special weapons I came across. The Brotherhood knows everything I do, and they have access to all of my resources."

"You didn't think of sharing any of this with me?" she demanded.

"You were at Oasis to recuperate, not participate." He replied evenly. "And let's be honest: three weeks ago, you wouldn't have cared either way."

Sarah relented. He had at least gotten that much right, but she was still feeling somewhat stung by the lack of what she considered to be vital intelligence. There wasn't much she could do about it now, though. And in the capital wasteland, it didn't do to dwell too long in the past.

"Let's just get back." She said. "We'll sort it out at the Citadel."

* * *

><p><strong>An extra short chapter, but I've been writing between breaks in studying. Considering how sporadic my muse has been over the past few weeks, I'm just happy I'm getting anything out at all. Chalk this one up to more mood and character building. Not much else to say. Will post whenever I have enough material for the next.<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

Mutatis Mutandis 5

Sarah and Jason had reached the Potomac's riverbed only an hour after their explorations of the empty Germantown outpost. Jason had been silent for the majority of the trip, although his mood had improved drastically by a short visit to Big Town. Sarah had never seen the tiny, desolate little settlement before. It consisted of a few intact town houses linked together by flimsy walls and fences creating the impression of a ramshackle fortress, although in truth the walls wouldn't stop a determined Brahmin. At least the destitute youths inside felt somewhat more secure for their existence.

The inhabitants themselves were a sorry lot. They were sunburned, and parched. Each of them carried a particular gauntness which spoke volumes about their diet, or lack thereof. She had always viewed the Brotherhood's resources as being strained, and they were, but her companions ate at least one solid warm meal a day, and had nigh unlimited access to fresh water when they needed it. They were, in fact, very well off.

It was far more than could be said for this sorry lot, and as she walked across their rickety rope bridge and entered the meager settlement, her respect for Jason himself, his father, and the socialistic idealism behind Project Purity grew immeasurably. In truth, at the beginning she had written James Howlett off as naïve. Blind to the realities of the wasteland, and that had clearly not been the case.

The Wanderer, by his own standards, was acting with an enormous amount of compassion. He left half of his own personal supplies there, along with ammunition and a few medical supplies. They treated him as a shepherd, of sorts. He had earned their respect, and it showed in the way they spoke and acted around him, like children milling around a highly esteemed school marm, and it was a shock to her system to realize that he wasn't actually all that much older than they were. Neither was she when it came right down to it. But there was more than one way a person could age.

Their chosen representative was a young dark-skinned woman by the name of Red, and if Sarah had been forced to pick one word to describe her, it would have been Quick. The girl was smart, barely into her twenties. She viewed the world from behind a pair of thick, bookish glasses, but she had a practical demeanor and a solid grasp of several different fields including medicine. She would have, Sarah thought, made an outstanding scribe, and the only reason the offer wasn't put forward was simply due to their apparent time constraints.

After seeing that Jason's supplies had been evenly distributed, Red lead the two travelers into the largest building, which had been haphazardly labeled as the town hall. She directed them to seats in the yellowing kitchen, and immediately started speaking.

"I'd offer you something to eat, but we have barely enough share the food between ourselves." She said, taking a seat beside them.

"Not a problem." The Wanderer replied.

Red smiled at him. "It's good to see you again. Been taking good care of my bandana?"

Jason nodded. Sarah stared at the item of clothing, which he was wearing around his head in the usual fashion. It had become a symbol all its own, tied as closely to him and the dream of Aqua Pura as the name James, the Wanderer's vault number, and the Brotherhood of Steel. It was something people instantly recognized. An iconic callsign. He wouldn't be the Wanderer without the bandana, and she had a hard time processing the sudden fact that it had ever been owned by anyone else. She turned to Red and asked, "That's yours?"

"Was." She replied as Jason watched on, bemused. "It's his now. I gave it to him as a present for rescuing Shorty and me from Germantown… what was that? Three years ago?"

"Four, now." Jason replied. He leaned forward. "Speaking of Germantown, have you seen anything from the Supermutants there?"

"Not for a week or so." Red told him. "I think we're beginning to get a little too comfortable…"

"And the water and trade caravans?" he persisted, "Have you seen them?"

"Crow was here… four days ago?" Red guessed. "Beyond that? We haven't seen a soul. Why?"

Jason had gone very quiet. He sat facing the wall, chewing his lip. He drummed his fingers on the coarse wood and said, "You should leave. All of you. Right now. Just pack up and go."

"What? Why?"

"The supermutants are planning something big." Jason said. "I don't know how big it's going to be, or when, but until it blows over, you should go to Megaton. It's safe there."

"Like they'll let _us _in." Red replied bitterly. "Besides, this is our home."

"Red-"

"Look, we're well-armed now!" the young woman replied. Her tone was not angry, but she was impressively steadfast. "_And_ trained, thanks to you. We can handle ourselves."

Jason sighed.

"Whatever the problem is, go take care of it." She said. "We'll hold the fort here."

"I can't be everywhere at once, Red." He tried.

"We'll be fine." She assured him. "Just go find out what's going on."

Jason sighed and sat back, glancing at Sarah.

Red watched him for a moment, and decided to throw him a bone. "Look, I'll get everyone together, and we'll hold a vote. But I doubt anyone's going to want to move. This place may be a pile of trash, but it's _our_ pile of trash."

"I guess that's all I can ask." Jason stood, and Sarah knew that the time had come to move on. "I have to escort her to the Citadel." He said, nodding at Sarah. "But I'll be back to check on you. Play it safe, Red. You see any sign of trouble, head west to Arefu. They have a strong, defensible position there."

"We will." The young woman promised.

* * *

><p>"I've never seen any place like that." Sarah said somberly as they started south again. "We really didn't help very much, did we?"<p>

"The Brotherhood did a lot." The Wanderer replied heavily. "No one denies that. If it weren't for you, _they_ would have been overrun by slavers and supermutants years ago."

Sarah watched him for a moment. She said, "You were a little better behaved than usual."

Jason shrugged. "Big Town is… special. When I think of the people who have it the worst, I think of them."

"Tell me about the supermutant rescue."

"Bigtown was one of the first places I visited after I came back from the Pitt." He replied. "They were far worse off back then. Paradise Falls was in full swing, and them and the mutants would take turns picking off residents, one by one. They were so badly off that they didn't even think about mounting rescue attempts. They just lay down and took it." He pulled off the red bandana and handed it to her. "Life had hit them so many times that they decided it wasn't worth getting back up. It was one of those defining moments, you know? A shock to my system. It reminded me of why my dad had fought so hard."

Sarah took the bandana and held it thoughtfully. It was frayed around the edges, but was woven with a strong, thick fabric which was surprisingly heavy.

He continued quietly. "I didn't have any reason to help. They didn't have any money or supplies to give me. Nothing they had was even worth stealing. But I had this rifle." He held up the jet-black Perforator. "And I had a combat knife. And I had my perks. I had the means to help. Sometimes having the means is a reason enough by itself. Red asked what she could give me in return. The only thing I took was the bandana. As a symbol."

"So it wasn't just Three Dog." Sarah said thoughtfully. "You bought into the image too."

"He took the idea and ran with it." Jason told her. "Took it way further than I would have. And I'm not sure I like how he decided to do it, but if it gives people hope…"

"Then it's worth it." She agreed.

As the day wore on, Sarah began to notice a subtle shift in their route. Instead of banking southeast, following the Potomac, Jason seemed to be leading them straight south. Sarah had a rough idea of the Capital Wasteland's layout, and though the map in her head wasn't nearly as thorough as the Wanderer's Pipboy, she was able to guess where they were heading.

"What's at Megaton?" she asked.

Jason turned, giving her an appraising look, obviously somewhat impressed. "I have a few enquiries to make. Supplies to drop off… I want ask Moira about the trade caravans."

"Just like Red?" Sarah frowned. "What are you hoping to find out?"

"The Caravans are the main lines of communication between the different settlements." He explained. "If Brutus is moving, they'd probably be the first thing he'd target. If they've visited recently, then we have a little more time."

"Wait…just how soon do you think this whole invasion thing is going to start?" She demanded.

"Another week. Maybe two." Jason shrugged. "I had to get you back to the wasteland. Just bear with me, and we'll be back to the citadel around nightfall."

"I don't mind putting that off a little longer, but do you really want to be wandering through the western ruins at dusk?" she asked. Even at the best of times, the D.C. ruins were as hostile as any territory in the capital wasteland could get. The Supermutants owned it.

"We're going to go under them. Straight through the county sewer mainline. It drops us just north of the Citadel."

"Sewers…" Sarah groaned. They were the worst. The sewers and the subway tunnel; vast tomb-like mazes in which all hallways looked the same. They were filled with the more frightening class of wasteland denizens: feral ghouls. Decrepit brown shambling corpses which hid in the shadows and struck with silent, stealthy speed. Add to that the mirelurks, omnipresent stench and claustrophobic atmosphere, and they turned out to be absolutely horrible places to wander. Although, she thought with a grim smile, both Sarah and Jason had seen and survived much worse. Well…Jason had survived, at any rate.

* * *

><p>Sarah had been in Megaton quite a few times over the years, but she was not particularly familiar with the residents. The Brotherhood tended not to mix with the 'locals' too much. In her earlier days it had been a matter of pride. Now it seemed very much a matter of arrogance and stupidity. She was at least able to recognize Lucas Simms, the town's enormous bearded sheriff. He was a bear-like man with dark skin and wrinkled, piercing eyes. Striding around the rim of the crater with his ten-gallon hat, sheriff duster, and Chinese assault rifle, he carried an air of authority which nearly rivaled the Wanderer's own unflappable brooding presence.<p>

Megaton itself was the second largest settlement in the capital wasteland, and third most well protected. The town itself had been built inside and around the edges of an enormous crater, left by a dud nuke. The bomb in question had long-since been disarmed by Jason, but it still acted as the social and decorative centerpiece of the town, not to mention its namesake. The edge of the crater had been lined with sheet metal from a nearby air bus station. The station itself had vanished completely from the memories of most wastelanders, with only the oldest residents of Megaton itself remembering the origin of the city's defensive wall.

Simms met them as they stepped through the rusty corrugated archway, greeting them with his deep, rumbling voice. "Welcome back. Where were you off to this time?"

"North." Jason said, suddenly in full Wanderer mode. He started around the rim of the enormous crater, headed for his house. The Sheriff walked beside him, putting Sarah squarely in the role of silent, following companion. She passed the time by watching the residents clamber up and down the treacherous staircases, and along the rickety catwalks which connected the upper buildings.

"Simms, there's trouble stirring in D.C.. Have the Caravans been by recently?" Jason asked.

"I think Crow was here two days ago." The Sheriff said. "And Doc Hoff came by two weeks ago carrying a few surprises for Church.

"Good." Jason nodded. "Do you remember our contingency plan?"

"Which one?"

"The Armory Plan."

Simms stopped dead and the two men stared at eachother. "What the _hell_ are you expecting to come our way?"

"There's a smart supermutant named Brutus somewhere in the D.C. ruins. He's rallying them together."

"And you haven't put him down already because…?"

"Because the purifier exploded." Jason answered evenly. "I had to track down the culprits. It was Brutus' plan. A time-sink and a distraction. It worked; he's going to move soon."

"Why the hell aren't you hunting him _now_?"

Jason thrust a thumb at Sarah, leaving her mildly offended. "I'm here to re-arm. I have to drop her off at the Citadel, and then visit Three-Dog and get him to broadcast the warning across the wasteland."

"Speaking of the Brotherhood," Simms added, giving her a cursory glance. "I noticed the water caravans have some new tech. Energy weapons. Repainted enclave gear…"

Jason stayed silent, watching him.

"… alright, then. Don't tell me." The Sheriff glowered sourly. "But I want to know when the rest of us are going to get our hands on it."

"They'll make the best use of it." Jason told him quietly. "So they get first kick at the mole rat. Just arm your city, Simms. I gave you the means. And if Moriarty gives you any trouble, I'll drag him into the wasteland, break his legs, and cut him open for the Yao Guai."

* * *

><p>Jason's house was a two-story, ramshackle building made from corrugated sheet metal. Like everything else in the town, oxidization had turned it a comfortable reddish brown color. The interior was homey enough, as Sarah knew from previous experience. The memory caused her to smile; the last time she had been in Jason's house, it had been their one and only proper date…<p>

So much had happened… She wondered idly whether or not he was still interested. She herself was in a state of indifference. She would be content either way. It was clearly the last thing on his mind at that moment, and given the disturbing news he'd taken great pains to spread, she could understand why. It would have to be sorted out later, perhaps. Whenever they caught a break from the constant state of crisis.

He unlocked the door and leapt backwards, intercepting a bounding, barking grey flash which had headed straight at Sarah with the express intent of tearing her to shreds. Dogmeat, his pet, and home security system. The animal was a vicious killer, but friendly to its allies, and it knew Sarah. She just had to prove her identity. After making sure Jason had a firm grip, she kneeled and held out her hand in a fist, allowing the snarling animal to sniff. It calmed down after a moment and stopped growling. Jason allowed it a little more freedom and it continued forward, extending a rasping tongue and licking her hand. The Wanderer let go cautiously. His pet padded on worn paws up to Sarah and sniffed her again, tail wagging happily.

Jason straightened up and held his door open, allowing her to step inside. She froze as she entered. A grotesque, bulbous clown mask was sitting on a bookshelf against the staircase. It was white with a small frilly polka-dot hat on top, and possessed mirthful eyes and a murderous grin.

She shut her own eyes tightly at the sudden flood of memories. The howls of the dying swampfolk, blood sliding down the edge of a rusted dagger, a terrible unearthly voice, Colvin's blissful expression, even as his lifeblood dribbled away… the enormous punga plant abomination, swaying insidiously in the morning breeze…

The ringing of buoy bells echoed in her skull, creating a splitting headache, and a sharp pain seared her abdomen where the ghoulish knife had bitten.

Jason brushed past her and swore violently, bellowing: "Wadsworth!"

With jellyfish-like movements, his mister handy robotic butler floated down from the upper levels, answering in a smooth British accent. "Welcome home, sir!"

Jason snatched up the blasphemous item and wrapped it in a blanket. "What did I tell you to do with this thing?"

Despite the nightmarish memories burning holes in her mind, Sarah was aware enough to hear Dogmeat's low growl as the mask swung cheerfully from Jason's iron grip. The dog was clearly no more a fan of the item than she was.

"You instructed me to burn it, sir."

"It doesn't look burnt to me." Jason snapped, stomping up the stairs.

"My deepest apologies, sir. I don't know what to tell you. I do recall putting it outside and turning it to ashes."

"Nevermind." Jason called from the upstairs railing. Sarah heard a door slam and he marched back down, having done away with the despicable object. He walked up to her and put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Are you alright?"

Sarah nodded, fighting down the memories. It was a difficult task, but she managed to pack them under a layer of Paladin Gunny's weapon safety speeches. She gave Jason a nod. He let go of her shoulder and confronted an enormous metal locker beside the door, pulling out several vicious weapons and laying them on the wooden table.

"Wadsworth, get Sarah some fresh water." He ordered, laying his gear out in strict rows. A set of tools was laid out on the bench beside him, and he began to tinker, swapping parts out and cleaning dirt out of the cracks.

"This way, Miss Lyons." The butler said. It squeezed past the picnic table and directed Sarah to an alcove behind the stairs. It was a tiny space, barely more than a closet, made smaller by the shelves and refrigerator. A small wash basin was against the wall to her right.

Sarah carefully peeled off her stormchaser hat, a wide-brimmed cap with cloth draped down either side of the face, as well as the back of the neck. It had been one of Jason's gifts, though a prize born of necessity; no one wandered the wasteland without the proper headgear. Sunstroke and dehydration were ever-present dangers to even the best prepared travelers. They were deadly dangers to those not prepared at all. Except Jason.

She shook out her head and let her scalp air out a little, feeling the red grooves the tight brim had left in the skin of her forehead. She reached down and turned on the creaking taps. From deep in the bowels of the house, she could hear pipes groaning. There was a moment of uncertainty, and the tap coughed out a small amount of brown ichor, but it was instantaneously washed away by a steady cream-coloured stream of water.

"Don't drink any." She heard Jason warn from the main room, "It's irradiated. I'll give you some Rad-away afterwards. There's bottles of Aqua Pura in the fridge."

Sarah loosened her clothing up, feeling her muscles stiffen from the long hike. She had spent most of her life patrolling through the ruins of D.C., but the Brotherhood was accustomed to short, fast maneuvers. An entire day of constant hiking in the rough terrain of the wasteland was a different kind of travel, and one she hadn't been entirely prepared for.

She washed her hands in the basin, and then splashed some of the cool water on her face, taking off the worst of the grime. Her hair was wiry and knotted, but she wasn't about to deal with that problem until she was back in the citadel.

When she had at least made herself presentable, Sarah reached out and opened the fridge. A refreshing cloud of cool air washed over her, a slice of heaven after the hot wastes. "How did you get the fridge to work?" she asked, leaning in and examining his stockpile of food. To her surprise, there wasn't much in terms of solid food. It was mostly water and perishables. A large amount of space _was_ taken up by stacks of raw meat from his many kills. The flesh was wrapped in plastic shopping bags, though how he had acquired them was a mystery.

"How did you manage to get a fridge to work?" she called out again.

"It's plugged into Megaton's generators." Jason replied. "And over the years I've given enough scrap metal to Walter, the town's resident mechanic, that he was willing to fix it up for me."

Sarah pulled out a bottle of cold water and shut the door, relishing the feel of condensation on the outside of the bottle. She unscrewed the top and took a small sip, sloshing it around her mouth to remove the dust and refresh her parched lips. Then she spat it into the sink.

One thing she had learned through the Brotherhood was never to drink cold water too fast after a large amount of exercise. The temperature shock made it uncomfortable. Taking it slow and careful, savoring each sip, was a much better way to go.

Jason appeared around the corner, gripping a combat shotgun just ahead of the trigger guard. He also had a harness with two extra drum magazines. He set them down against the wall. "Your weapon. Just in case. We'll be travelling through the sewer."

"Thank you."

Jason stared at her for a moment, frowning slightly. "We have forty-five minutes, and the bed's upstairs…"

Sarah raised both eyebrows, feeling somewhat shocked, but he turned out to be thinking on a completely different line. He prattled on, oblivious. "I'm going to take a walk around town. Ask some questions and talk to people. You should rest. Take a nap or…something. There's twenty caps on the table in case you're hungry. Go to the center of town and get a meal at The Brass Lantern.

"I can't go with you?" she asked.

"You could." Jason replied. "I just thought you might want to rest. "

* * *

><p>Donovan ran, vaulting over a park bench, his heavy breath burning his over-taxed lungs. The pain in his side was unbearable, but he kept running, knowing that if he stopped, he was dead. Bullets hammered the cast-iron fence to his right, filling the air with the sound of ringing metal.<p>

He sped up and reached the end of the block, darting down an alleyway and hoping like hell that it lead him to safety. It turned slightly, bringing the opposite end into view. Behind him, Donovan could hear the yells and growls of the pursuing mutants.

He was twenty meters from the end of the alleyway when the blue sky was blocked by an enormous figure. A fully-armoured behemoth, carrying an entire bus over its shoulder. It slammed the vehicle sideways into the gap, wedging it with a horrid screeching noise, blocking Donovan's only escape. The merc rushed forward anyway and began to clamber up the side of the vehicle, using the broken window frames as steps on a precarious ladder.

He got seven feet up before a rough hand grabbed him just below the knee. He looked down at the supermutant overlord, who was laughing harshly.

"Come down, human!" it said.

Donovan reached to his side and pulled out his pistol, taking careful aim at the Overlord's face. Spotting the weapon, it growled, and gave a mighty tug, sending Donovan falling over its shoulder and landing heavily on the rough pavement. His pistol skittered away, and before he could reach it, the Overlord had picked him up and hauled him back down the alley, towards the bulk of the mutant forces.

It laid him down at the center of a large circle of mutants. They were strangely silent, though not displeased, and Donovan immediately knew why. A strange dark-skinned supermutant in rough, sharp-edge armour was standing at the far side of the silent circle, watching him. This was the leader. An intelligent one, bearing the weight of ages on its shoulders. Donovan had never thought about how long mutants lived. They had been faceless opponents. That was all. Yet this one's bearing and silent control made it far more impressive. It's black helmet was effective. An altered version of the brutes' Galea helmet. This one had short vicious spikes surrounding the top. Crowning it.

"Kneel." The King ordered. Donovan obeyed, not seeing any other options. His escape attempt had failed. There was no point in arguing with them. It would only cause unwanted pain. Perhaps they would kill him quickly if he cooperated.

It turned away, opening a small, sturdy case attached to the steel plate on its right thigh. It pulled out a syringe filled with a thick, clear liquid. At the same moment, two overlords moved forward and pinned Donovan down. One of them pulled his arm taut. He struggled, but he might as well have been encased in concrete for all the good it did him.

The king prepped the syringe, tapping the bubbles out. Then it strode forward and plunged the end into Donovan's arm, injecting him. He bit him tongue, refusing to give the mutant the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. As soon as the syringe was removed, a burning sensation began to move slowly down Donovan's arm, followed by a rapidly growing itch.

"You been poisoned." The king told him, placing the needle back in his holster. "You have approximately six minutes to live. You will suffer through four of them in intolerable agony."

Donovan struggled, the itch growing to unbearable proportions. "Why?"

The king ignored him. Instead, it pulled out a second syringe and placed it on the ground before him. This one was green and glowing. The two overlords let Donovan go and moved back into line.

"In there is the antidote. And enough of the FEV II virus to turn you into one of us."

Donovan stared at it, then glared at his captor. "I'd rather die in pain than live as one of you!"

The king frowned curiously. "I wonder why you normals always say that. And you always do… at the start."

It smiled. Donovan cried out as the burning pain suddenly flooded his body, crippling him.

The mutant leader took a seat on a nearby car and leaned forward, tenting his fingers. Around the circle, the mutants jeered and laughed. "Let us see which is stronger: your defiance and tolerance for pain, or your instinct for self preservation."

* * *

><p><strong>Alright, so I'm amazed at how much actually has to get cleaned up here before the proper story can start. Aqua Vitae left this continuity in a mess. There's perhaps one or two more chapters before I can really start this damned thing outright. My apologies for this absurdly long opening section.<strong>

**I'm glad to say that Six String Bard's story has been updated again, too. Go check it out.**

**Brutus' poem is actually "When Earth's Last Picture Is Painted" by Rudyard Kipling. I altered it a little. I wish I hadn't had to use someone else's work, but my own poetry has never been anything more than "There once was a man named Tom…" or "There was a woman from Nantucket…". **

_**I wanted to give the bug a needle, but it went and killed the little beetle.**_

**I can't do poetry myself, so I have to steal and feel bad about it. The original had a very different context, but I think it fits the tone.**

**12/09/09- edited. I changed Brutus' scene quite a bit. The poem is no longer a part of it.**


	6. Chapter 6

Mutatis Mutandis 6

The County Sewer Mainline was as horrid a place as Sarah had imagined. They had entered it through a small manhole inside a sewer waystation just west of Megaton. An unremarkable building which nearly all the wasteland inhabitants had ignored completely. But the newly discovered route was a golden gift.

The interior was a maze-like set of corridors with an enormous multi-level central chamber. Sarah's trip had been completely uneventful, due entirely to Jason. The moment darkness had fallen on them, he took his silenced assault rifle and vanished from sight, only reappearing whenever she became lost. She never heard noise of any kind, but came upon freshly killed feral ghouls every few minutes, all of them sporting gunshots to the head, or sometimes slit throats. The Wanderer was putting his skills to use.

While the route from Megaton to the citadel had become relatively safe in recent years, it was still a danger to the unwary traveler. It was not secure, and difficult to patrol as there were so many openings both to the wasteland, and to the deeper ruins of downtown D.C.. Yet this dark, dank sewer system which combined the unendurable stenches of ghoul flesh and human waste, dropped them right beside the citadel. Sarah wondered how many lives could have been saved if the Brotherhood had known about it earlier.

* * *

><p>As they rounded the collapsed western end of the bridge, the citadel came into view, as did the power-armoured figures guarding it. Despite everything Jason had told her about the Brotherhood's upgrades, she still had to resist diving behind a nearby rock and readying her combat shotgun. Jason gave her a bemused, inquiring look.<p>

"It's… not right." She murmured, staring at the unmistakable armour.

"Relax, Sarah." Jason replied, striding forward. Though he himself was keeping his assault rifle a little closer to hand than he normally did. She fell in behind him, trying to keep her finger off the trigger.

They approached a brotherhood soldier in hellfire armour, painted with streaks of grey and blue. He was carrying a minigun, but had the barrel down in a relaxed manner.

"Welcome back, Paladin." Paladin Bael saluted Jason.

"Paladin?" Jason frowned, reflecting Sarah's own confusion.

"You got promoted, Sir. For all the extra gear." Bael told them, his helmet's speakers lending his voice a strange electronic echo. "I still kept my minigun, though. Don't trust the new gear. Nothing beats a regular wall of lead." He looked beyond Jason and nodded cautiously at Sarah. When he spoke to her, his tone was demeaning, as if he were trying to calm an angry child. Obviously word had spread about her departure. "Good to see you again, Miss Lyons. How was your vacation?"

"She has a rank!" Jason snapped, noting the man's reaction.

"Don't, Jason." Sarah said, shaking her head. "You'll only make it worse."

She shot Bael a dirty look and stomped through the entranceway, ahead of Jason.

* * *

><p>Sarah was not particularly happy with the Brotherhood. She could tell that Jason was nervous as well. Seeing Enclave-armoured troops strolling nonchalantly through the courtyard was disconcerting, to say the least. The armour had only ever been a target of hatred. Wearing it was sacrilegious, in a strange way. Brotherhood soldiers wore T-51b power armour. It was a central part of their identity. The enclave were the enemy. Seeing them walking around the citadel was a nightmare brought to life, though her fears were allayed somewhat by the fact that she recognized most of the soldiers.<p>

Their hideous collection of brand new alien weaponry was equally as worrying. Strange, unwieldy pistols, and oddly shaped rifles with narrow barrels. They were energy weapons, very clearly. Though what type was still anyone's guess.

The Brotherhood soldiers who happened to cross their path as they made for the Citadel's A-Ring treated them with either careful politesse, or an awkward deferential awe. Any reaction shown was directed almost exclusively at the Wanderer, and it was clear that none of them wished to actually engage either of them in conversation.

Jason, having been long used to their attitude, easily brushed it off and strode across the courtyard, full of purpose. Sarah had a harder time of it. These were her people. Her allies and comrades. She had grown up around most of them, and to see them view her through the same lens as the Lone Wanderer was hurtful. The stares and the whispered conversations which stopped whenever she grew near, showed just how much damage her hasty departure had done. It was less than she had feared, but far, far worse than she'd hoped.

The Wanderer cut off one such conversation between Paladin Gunny and a faceless knight. Both were outfitted in enclave armour, streaked with grey and blue. The Quartermaster had clearly not defined a standard paintjob for the new uniforms yet, but at least the ranks were displayed on the pauldrons, and the colors made it clear which faction the wearer belonged to. Jason walked up to them and asked, "Where is Elder Lyons?"

Gunny stared at Sarah curiously until she met his gaze, at which point he looked back at Jason. "Being briefed. There's a few Talon Company mercs there." He shook his head. "Been training knights how to use those new weapons. There's a lot of rumors flying around. Scuttlebutt says you got them from an alien ship, but the Scribes won't tell us anything. Could you maybe…?"

"No." Jason replied. He motioned to Sarah and they continued. She could feel the drill sergeant's gaze lingering on the back of her neck.

She followed Jason into the A-ring, to the door of the Lyons' Den. Her squad's barracks. Though it was Glade's squad now, she suspected.

Jason turned to her. "Here's your stop. I have to report to Rothchild." He sighed. "There's probably has a lot of questions, and I have a few of my own…"

Sarah nodded numbly, trying to overcome her own nerves, and laid her hand on the doorknob. It was strange to think that during her lifetime, she had faced down hordes of Supermutants, giant insects, robots, feral ghouls and all the other hazards of the wasteland, but still had trouble facing her own squad. Her own family. The same people who had decided she was unfit to command.

Poplar's warning of betrayal echoed through her mind again, and she withdrew her hand as if scorched. A thousand scenarios played out in her mind. She hadn't properly explained what had happened in Point Lookout. Not to anyone. Did they blame her for Colvin and Gallows? Would they trust her to lead? Would they even trust her to follow? Suddenly she was not on solid ground anymore. She had become a wildcard, she realized, just like Jason had been. An outsider. And she didn't want to talk to them yet. She wasn't ready.

"Perhaps you should talk to your father first." Jason suggested gently, sensing her hesitation. "I'm sure he'd be willing to find a place for you." She gave him a grateful look. Ibn reply he took back his combat shotgun and headed for the laboratories.

* * *

><p>Elder Reginald Rothchild was happily overtaxed. This was a welcome improvement from his normal state: onerously overtaxed. Although on the less demanding days, he'd find himself only mildly overtaxed, enabling him enough time for a glass of cool water and perhaps something to read, like a manual, or report of some sort. Rothchild had never been one for fiction.<p>

As it was, he was happily overtaxed. All text books, reports and manuals lay forgotten alongside a glass of water as he stared down at the disassembled alien rifle before him. He was flanked on both sides by two more desks, one piled high with additional samples, the other with a carefully arranged set of tools. Another two tables had been set up a short distance away with microscopes, vials, and the sort of chemical testing equipment which required that the glass blower be afflicted with hiccups.

The samples of alien technology his scribes had brought back were astonishing. The inherent ability of the power cells to regulate and store energy efficiently was of particular interest to him. If it could be adapted, it would potentially solve all of Liberty Prime's power fluctuation issues. He had locked himself in his private lab, intent on working with no distractions, and in the last few hours, he had made great strides forward in his understanding of the device, or so he hoped.

He had managed to gently pry the outer casing off of an alien disintegrator, and was in the process of disassembling and cataloging the pieces to see how they fit together when he felt the little hairs on the back of his neck begin to rise. Mildly annoyed at the interruption, he looked up, searching for the source of his discomfort, and flinched. The Lone Wanderer was watching him from the other side of the desk, silent as the grave, and staring at him with a cold, patient blue stare.

"Tell me," the scribe inquired, glancing at the door, which was apparently still locked. "Do you know how to knock, Mister Howlett?"

The Wanderer gazed down at Rothchild's half-built project. "How is the new tech?"

"Fascinating." Rothchild told him, his tone dismissive.

"You've got questions, I assume?" the young man asked.

The scribe sat back and stared, a diluted sort of morbid curiosity overtaking him. he gestured at the half-disassembled weapon. "Do you understand how this weapon works?"

"Yes."

For a split second, Rothchild was pleasantly surprised. He often forgot that Jason Howlett was the son of an absolutely brilliant scientist. Then he remembered that Jason Howlett was also the Lone Wanderer, known for one thing, and one thing only: his almost supernatural ability to end lives with impunity. Rothchild grew suspicious. "When I say 'understand'…"

"I can kill with it." The Wanderer said confidently. "If you put it back together."

Rothchild nodded . He was not particularly intimidated by the Lone Wanderer anymore; the boy had shown a little too much heart in his dealings with Sarah for the scribe to be nervous. Also, the sheer weight of the revelations Jason Howlett had shared with the Brotherhood placed Rothchild squarely in his corner when it came to dealing with the world. A lot more about the young man's formerly enigmatic behavior had become clear since the unfolding of recent events, and the Wanderer's answer was exactly the reply he had expected. He picked up his tools and started back into the bowels of the weapon, saying, "Then I'm afraid you won't be able answer any of _my _questions."

"Well I have a few to ask."

Rothchild sighed and set down his tools. "Such as?"

"The purifier? Did you get the G.E.C.K. installed?"

"You'll have to ask Alex Dargon for the details, but we're well on our way."

"And the Cure?"

Now _that _was a topic Rothchild could make the time for! He rose and lead Jason over to the table with the microscope. A small cooler was sitting on the shelf above. Rothchild gingerly lifted it down and pulled from it a set of vials. One of them was glowing bright blue. The two others were red and a light purple.

"I assume you recognize this?" Rothchild asked, readying a glass dropper. He dipped it in the glowing blue liquid and withdrew a small, carefully measured amount.

"Nuka Cola Quantum?"

"Humorous. But wrong." Rothchild said. "This is the cure. Your cure. The PVP virus. A sample. Take a look along that rack. The purple vial is our own version. Backwards engineered."

"Does it work?"

"Ours? Not yet." The scribe told him, "the best we've been able it do is target and kill FEV affected DNA strands. We haven't yet been able to replicate the PVP virus' ability to discard the FEV sequences and bring the suppressed human counterparts forward. But it's a start…"

"Wait… how does it work?" the Wanderer frowned. "I thought the FEV virus sort of… trashed the human version and then replaced it."

"Not at all…" Rothchild readied a second dropper, taking a sample from a second vial, labeled as supermutant blood. "Not at all. It forms a separate DNA double-helix, bound to the normal strand, forming a quadruple helix." He readied a slide, cleaning it and placing a single drop of mutant blood on it. He carefully put the coverslip on top, making sure not to catch any air bubbles, and slipped the assembly under the microscope. He adjusted the dials, focusing the instrument until the image was well-defined.

"There!" the scribe stood back triumphantly. "Take a look!"

The Wanderer obeyed, peering into the microscope. "It's like little red candies… those are the red blood cells. My dad used to do this when I was a little kid."

"Yes, keep looking. "Rothchild told him smoothly. "And now…" the scribe picked up the PVP sample dropper and placed a single drop on the slide and waited patiently for it to mingle with the mutant sample, which it eventually did.

"All I saw was that it turned from red, to purple, and then back to red again…" the young man said.

Rothchild deflated slightly, aware that this did not look like the shining beacon of change he knew it was. He rallied. "Well yes, but that blood is now at the state it was in before the FEV cure as injected. The mutant double helix is gone. It's human blood now."

The Wanderer frowned, pulling away from the microscope lenses. He picked up the slide and held it up to the light, as if that would have shown him anything more. "And how much would it take to turn a full mutant?" he asked.

"I'm not even sure it would." Rothchild answered. "Even if we knew the proper dosage, we have no viable method of delivery. I can't exactly tell a supermutant to sit still while I inject it…"

They both fell silent, caught in the same creative spin.

"I made a dart gun." The Wanderer suggested thoughtfully. "The darts were tipped with radscorpion venom. Silent. Deadly."

"And dosage control?"

"Well that's up to you."

"It's academic anyway." Rothchild said, packing up the vials and putting them back in the cooler, "We don't have enough to weaponize it, and our backwards engineered version doesn't change the mutants. It kills them."

"And this is a problem?" The Wanderer asked, genuinely flummoxed.

Rothchild chuckled. "No. Just outside our intended scope."

"Either way, it's useful."

They lapsed into silence.

"I take it Sarah is back, then." The scribe said.

The Wanderer nodded.

"How is she?" he asked quietly. Rothchild himself had spent quite a few recent nights reading by lamplight, fearing the dark and the memories it brought back. He was not about to complain, though. Not when poor Sarah had suffered so much more.

"Better. She doesn't scream anymore." The corner of the Wanderer's mouth twitched slightly. "And she hasn't tried to shoot me again."

"I suppose that's an improvement. I had a talk with her, you know…?" Rothchild folded his arms and leaned against the nearby desk. "About resolving things between you and her father, and you and the Brotherhood… we were on board the Duchess Gambit at the time. On the way there."

"Those issues sorted themselves out."

"Indeed." Rothchild nodded mournfully. "Now she's going to be the issue. Nadine is dead, by the way."

The Wanderer frowned, surprised. "How?"

"Sarah killed her with a tire iron. Beat her to death right after we got back." Rothchild winced at the memory of the red-headed captain's tongue and teeth exploding out the side of her cheek, ripped open by the heavy implement. The Wanderer seemed relatively unconcerned. Rothchild was only just starting to learn how to read the man's body language and stone face, and right at that moment, he would have guessed that Mister Howlett was disappointed. Though whether the root of that emotion lay with Sarah's behavior, a feeling of loss over Nadine, or at being cut off from potentially useful resources was still unresolved. The Wanderer settled the issue with a telling question.

"Is Calvert dead?"

"I suppose so." Rothchild replied. "I had more pressing concerns. Why did you leave him in that deprived state?"

"He was an asset." The Wanderer replied coldly.

"That doesn't excuse torture." Rothchild made it clear through his tone that he wasn't reprimanding, but rather raising a point. "He wanted to die."

The Wanderer made it clear through his tone that either way he would have given the same answer. "The brain was an asset. Nothing more. I could have traded knowledge for death."

As he stalked away, Rothchild was reminded of something Sarah had once said: _Anything that might benefit the Capital Wasteland, at any cost to anyone outside it. The whole 'friend to all' thing is Three-dog's creation._

* * *

><p>Elder Owyn Lyons collapsed heavily onto his couch, a glass of wine in his hand. It was a foul drink, corked and sour with age, but he had found recently that having one or two a day helped to calm him. It helped him to put aside certain things so that he could operate efficiently. He knew what he needed more than anything else: a vacation. That wasn't an option, so he'd have to make do with wine.<p>

He stared into the depths of the drink for a moment, and then rose. He crossed to the alcove behind the couches and pulled out a dust-covered recording. He brushed it off gently and made his way to the audio player in the corner of his room.

The player crackled to life and a man's voice sprung from the speakers. Young, strong and full of aspirations, it brought back many pleasant memories of a simpler time. It was accompanied by the gurgling of a small child.

"_Megan, say something!"_ the man's voice requested.

A reply was heard, in the form of a light, tinkling laughter. Female. _"What are you doing, Owyn?"_

"_Recording us. Megan, say something!"_

"_Rothchild got it to work?" _the woman laughed again. In the background, the baby giggled.

"_He did. Here, hold up Sarah!"_

There was a pause, and the sounds of the child suddenly grew a lot its own terms, it wasn't a particularly pleasant sound, full of dribbling, raspberries and a little too much spittle. But to Elder Lyons, it was music.

"_Hello Sarah! She looks so happy, Megan! Look at her smile!"_

The baby giggled.

"_You're going to be a knight." _Lyons heard his younger self say. _"A Paladin of the Brotherhood of Steel! I'm going to be so proud of you!" _

There was a faint knock, barely audible over the sound of the crooning child. A door slid open, and a new, harsh voice was heard. Full of purpose. _"Sir, Elder Jeremy Maxson requests your presence."_

"_What's the problem, Paladin?"_

"_He wants to talk with you about sending an expedition east."_

"_East?"_ That was Megan's voice. Young baby Sarah was removed from the microphone _"What on earth is out east?"_

"_The Pentagon. Apparently it's still around..."_

"_And he wants to send out an expedition _now_?" _Lyons' voice was laced with incredulity. In the background, the baby had gone quiet, sensing the sudden change in atmosphere.

"_You barely survived Richardson!" _Megan argued. _"If it wasn't for the Chosen One-"_

"_And he's ran off again, hasn't he? Look, I don't give the orders, I'm just carrying the message." _The nameless soldier replied, sounding harassed. _"Elder Maxson told me to invite Owyn Lyons to the briefing room at his earliest convenience. That's it."_

"_At his 'earliest convenience'…?"_

"_Except less polite." _The soldier affirmed_. "Just get there, sir. Now."_

Elder Lyons heard a soft knock at the door, and it took him a moment to realize it wasn't part of the recording. He reached forward and stopped it, listening carefully. Sure enough, there was a second knock, more hesitant than the first.

"Come in." He said.

The door creaked open and Sarah walked through, dressed in recon armour. She look nervous, but not in the caged, animalistic way she had been after she'd arrived back the first time. At least this time, he knew he was staring into his own daughter's eyes, instead of the feral, half-crazed monster which Point Lookout had turned her into.

The wounds on her face were healed. Her blonde hair looked slightly lopsided now, by reason of an enormous, pale scar which cut across the right side of her head, starting at her hairline and ending above her ear. She'd been grazed by a gunshot wound during her nightmarish adventure, and it was the most obvious physical difference.

The last he'd seen of her, she'd been beyond saving, raving, ranting, and screaming at him, her words tearing his battered heart to shreds_. __It was __hell__, dad. You sent me into __Hell__! __Do you have any idea how much I suffered there__? Sorry is not good enough!_

He'd tried to apologize, but it had only made her more furious. Eventually a member of her own squad had dragged him away before she actually had a chance to strike at him. There were rumors of horrible screaming in the nighttime, and a mysterious book brought by the Wanderer. Worse, that she'd tried to kill someone.

Then she'd disappeared again. He hadn't even been sure she'd return, unable to face that possibility. The only faint hope he'd been able to grasp was a quiet assurance from Star-Paladin Glade that she'd gone with the Wanderer. Perhaps the son of James Howlett was capable of pulling off yet another miracle.

The way she was watching Owyn now, it looked as if the Wanderer had managed it again.

"Sarah…" Owyn rose to his feet.

She licked her lips nervously and hugged herself, hunching up as if caught by a sudden chill. Her gaze shifting to the recording device. Lyons found himself tensing up when she opened her mouth to speak. She didn't look angry, but he was still afraid.

"I heard mom's voice." She said quietly.

"I was just…" he motioned silently at the machine.

She nodded, and closed the door behind her, then moved to sit down beside him. When she met his eyes, her expression said everything a thousand words couldn't: A thousand apologies. A thousand messages of forgiveness, and a thousand reassurances that she wanted everything to be okay between them. That she loved her father.

She said, "Play it again, please."

* * *

><p><strong>So those of you unfamiliar with the Cure, its origins are explained in Aqua Vitae.<strong>

**Lyons' recording was Krow Blood's idea, and damn, but it was a good one! **

**These updates are taking a while, but it's for a very specific reason: I'm trying to make this story a cut above my regular stuff. It is the end of the trilogy, afterall. I **_**could **_**write it kinda O.K. and get across everything I intend to, like I did in Modus Operandi. or I could **_**do the very best job possible**_**, which is what I figure this series deserves at this point. I don't plan on accepting less from myself.**

**Late Night Side-thought: Hey, if the NCR's flag is a double-headed bear, is there some tribe up in Canada which has a double-headed beaver? The dorkiest tribe ever would have a double-headed platypus.**


	7. Chapter 7

Mutatis Mutandis 7

Jason was surprised to find a couple of surly-looking Talon Company mercenaries guarding the door to the Great Hall, which served as the Brotherhood's briefing room. They were locked in a silent glaring contest with an equal number of Brotherhood soldiers. To Jason's knowledge, the two factions had never gotten along up until that point. But things had changed recently. The Talon Company had undergone a major shift in management and oddly enough, though they had always been a thorn in his side, they had probably become the faction Jason could rely on the most, aside from the Brotherhood itself. If the two of them could find a way to work together, it could only mean good things for the wasteland.

As he stood listening, the rather heated negotiations began to seep through the closed door.

"Look, I have mouths to feed and mercs to arm. You want us to take up the slack, the Talon Company is going to need more than an IOU." Said a familiar voice.

"We are not prepared to give away our old materials. The T-51B power armour is not meant for-"

"For what? Mercs like me? Simple wasters? It wasn't so holy you couldn't see fit to upgrade. You have all this new gear and we're still trying to get by using pea shooters. I want your old stuff, training for my boys, and free access to Aqua Pura whenever we want it."

"Power-armour training is non-negotiable."

"You're damned right it is."

"That's not what I meant!"

Jason opened the door to the briefing room. A pair of haggard Brotherhood soldiers were seated to his left. Star-paladin Glade and Paladin Tristan, both of whom were honorable men. Jason had worked with them before and privately held them in quite high esteem.

A middle-aged man was sitting opposite them. Bristly, graying stubble covered his scarred chin. His wiry hair was somewhere between brown and grey, and he had the voice and bearing of a starved wolf, toughened with age. He was pinching a cigarette between thumb and forefinger, smoking it vivaciously. His black Talon Company armour had been repainted with white stars on the pauldrons, and beneath the claw logo on his chest. He gave Jason a nod in greeting. "Hey, Fletcher. Tell these boys to open their armory, would you? I've got things to do."

"Fletcher?" Tristan asked, frowning at Jason.

"Cover name." Jason grunted, grinning at Jackrum. "Good to see you, Sarge."

"Sarge?" Tristan and Glade exchanged confused glances. It occurred to Jason that moment that may have been the first time either of them had ever seen him smile.

"Commander." Jackrum corrected. "These guys want my boys running the Aqua Pura shipments. But they aren't giving me the gear I need to make it safe for us."

"We need that gear for training purposes." Tristan shot back angrily.

"Bullshit." The Talon Company commander let out a thick puff of smoke. "You're hording it because tech's what keeps you at the top. Don't think I don't get that. But you need manpower. And we need supplies. Nothing but simple. We're mercenaries; we don't work for free. And you need us. There's no point in wasting time here, boys."

"I agree." Glade said suddenly, staring hard at Jason. Paladin Tristan gave him a shocked look.

"About damned time." Jackrum replied, relieved.

Glade met Jason's gaze, searching him for any hints about Sarah. He had questions. That much was clear. And he couldn't answer them until he got out of this meeting. He had been the one who asked Jason to get Sarah out of the Citadel. The Star-Paladin had worked with her, mentored her since she was a child, and her well-being was of the utmost importance to him. Certainly more than dragging out negotiations for the sake of appearances. The Brotherhood was severely short-staffed. Jackrum held the cards, and all three of them knew it.

He looked to the Commander. "We can't offer you Power-Armour right now. It's heavy and we have no way to transport it in the numbers you need. But we can give you laser and plasma rifles along with ammunition for assault rifles and sniper rifles."

"And free Aqua Pura?" Jackrum pressed.

"When the purifier is producing fresh water at the rates it was before." Tristan said.

"And sanctuary for any Talon Company Merc at any brotherhood outpost." Jackrum added.

"Forget it-" The Paladin began.

"It's not unreasonable." Jason said, frowning. "They're doing you're work for you, after all. You offer it to regular wasters anyway."

"There, you see?" Jackrum grinned like a shark, gesturing at Jason. "Stamp of approval from the Lone Wanderer himself. Now you have to say 'yes'."

"I don't trust mercenaries. And supplying the Talon Company will be an extra drain on our resources." Tristan warned.

"Offset by the fact that we aren't losing as much equipment trying to get the water around." Glade said distractedly. "Are we done here?"

The other two negotiators ignored him.

"If you're worried about money, why don't you tax the water?" Jackrum asked.

"Absolutely not!" Jason responded heatedly. "That wasn't my father's dream. The water is free."

"Alright." Jackrum looked him up and down. "Say each settlement gets a free minimum. Enough to get by, but they have to charge for extra."

"And what?" Jason demanded, crossing his arms. "People in Tenpenny Tower get to shower in the stuff while Big Town's on a starvation diet? Absolutely not."

"You and your morals." Jackrum grumbled.

"Look who's talking." Jason shot back.

The merc grinned and rose to his feet. He confronted Tristan. "Look, son. I don't care what you think of me. But you're outvoted. I got one of your own-" He gestured at Glade, "And The Lone Wanderer on my side here. You want to keep watching your own friends dying or not? Let me and my boys do the heavy lifting."

Tristan opened and shut his mouth, glaring at the old veteran. "I don't trust mercenaries. You answer to nothing but money."

"This man was offered two-hundred and fifty-thousand caps to let me die." Jason said with a tone of finality. "He turned it down. _I_ trust him."

Tristan gave up. He threw up his hands. "Fine! We'll send the weapons out tomorrow."

"I'll look forward to it." Jackrum said, tapping the ash off the end of his cigarette. He strode past Jason, patting him on the shoulder as he sauntered by. "Drop by the fort sometime, kid. We'll crack open a beer, shoot the shit…"

"If I'm out that way." Jason replied. As the merc neared the door, Jason turned. "Jackrum?"

"Yeah?" the commander spun around.

"Two weeks ago." Jason intoned. "Northern mountains. Seven Talon Company mercenaries…?"

Jackrum shrugged. "The last of Jabsco's crew. I needed to clean house. You could handle it. You're the Lone fuckin' Wanderer, afterall…" he frowned slightly. "You got their gear?"

"Weapons and ammo."

"Drop it by the fort when you have a chance, would you?"

"Will do."

The merc was gone. Tristan and Glade stood in front of their chairs, uncertain as to what the next move was. Eventually Jason turned back to them. "Where is Elder Lyons?"

"Indisposed." Glade replied politely. "We're negotiating on his behalf. He hasn't been well. Not since Sarah…well…" he shrugged awkwardly. "…you know."

Jason nodded.

"Is she alright?" Glade asked as Tristan made his own way out, glaring at the pair of them.

"Better. Less screaming." Jason shrugged. "She needed a break."

"Where did you take her?"

"Her business. My business."

"Fair enough…" Glade said. The Star-Paladin waited patiently, but apparently that wasn't the end of the conversation, which was odd; it usually _was_ whenever he spoke with the Lone Wanderer.

Instead Jason was watching him with a closed, but curious expression. "Would you trust her to watch your back in a firefight?" he asked.

"I'd… want to have her reevaluated first." Glade said. "But if she's better…"

"What about the rest of the Pride?"

"All two of them, you mean?" Glade asked. Jason detected hints of bitterness in the knight's tone. "Kodiak'll be glad to have her back. He just wants this whole thing over with. Dusk, on the other hand…"

Jason waited.

"She hasn't been the same since we lost Colvin. She blames Sarah. Hates _you_."

Jason crossed his arms. "I'll have to add another notch to my belt."

Glade ignored the mild jab. "And seeing Sarah come back in such a sorry state… you know, she wasn't the most skilled, but she was our leader. A damned good one. She certainly wasn't incompetent."

"Isn't." Jason corrected.

Glade stared at him. "Do you honestly believe the Sarah Lyons who left is the same one who came back?"

"The day they let me back into the vault, I knew I wasn't the same person who had left."

"Well maybe." The Star-Paladin replied. "But there's a world of difference between spending a few days in a swamp, searching for a G.E.C.K., and spending years of your life wandering the capital wasteland. She lost her team so easily…"

"You're right there." Jason said, chuckling darkly. "There _is _a difference. _Several_ worlds' difference. And human beings don't belong in most of them."

"The hell does _that_ mean?"

"It means she's been through more than _me_." Jason said. "I hope _that_ statement has some impact. Have some patience with her. I know what it feels like to be the outcast."

"You don't seem to mind."

Jason's fingers twitched, but aside from that, he made no movement.

"I'm on her side." Glade continued. "Hell, of all the Pride I'm probably the one who cares about her the most. But if she isn't fit for duty…"

"She wants to be."

"It might not be her choice."

"So whose is it, then?"

"Well, her father's." glade said thoughtfully. "The Doctor's certainly. Mine too. I'll have a psych evaluation done. But she shouldn't expect this to be easy."

Jason stared at the man, running through his options. Assets and information. The doctor was Phantom, the Raider. He owed Jason a favor or two. Elder Lyons was a non-issue. The man loved his daughter, and was guilt-ridden over what Point lookout had done to her. It was his wish that she was the one who went. He would probably bend the rules to let her back in. Probably.

But Glade… The Star-Paladin's problem was that he didn't understand what Sarah had gone through. Neither did Jason, really, though he knew better than most. Glade also probably wouldn't trust her testimony. But there was another survivor of the Point lookout expedition. The only other survivor.

"Have you spoken to Rothchild yet?" he asked.

"Not yet. I've been busy training knights on how to use the new firearms." Glade shrugged. "I don't honestly talk to Scribes much. They're where the orders come from."

"Talk to him." Jason said. "Learn what you can before you judge Sarah."

"And you?"

"I've got to go visit Three-Dog."

As Jason made his way towards the door, Glade called out to him. "For the record, I'm glad she'd got you looking out for her."

He turned back. "Someone has to. And her own family isn't doing it."

* * *

><p>Sarah caught up with Jason just beyond the inner gate of the Citadel. A rather pleasant view of the sparkling river and D.C. ruins was visible beyond the crack in the wall. It was as private a place as could be found within the Brotherhood's stronghold.<p>

Perhaps 'caught up' was the wrong way to put it. She arrived there a few minutes earlier than he did, and sat on a chunk of concrete, watching the river and waiting silently for the door to open, which it eventually did.

Jason stepped through, adjusting the shoulder strap which held his scoped assault rifle in place. He spotted her immediately and came to a halt, a smile lighting up his new face. She had noticed the change before, but it had been secondary to other concerns. His hair aside, Jason looked like The Wanderer from the motivational posters. He hadn't been particularly ugly before he had been forced to disguise himself. But whomever had fixed him up had done so by working directly off of Three Dog's posters, and now… well now he looked like a grittier, less cartoonish version of Captain Cosmos. Complete with the strong, confidant jaw, the furrowed brow, and the piercing blue eyes.

It was a change she decided she could live with. And he was still more than able to put across that dangerous, brooding, predatory air when he wanted to.

"You talk to your father?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Good." He said, "How did it go?"

Sarah smiled. Nothing had actually been said. But she'd sat with him. Huddled up beside him the way she had when she was a child. "I think we're going to be okay."

"…And the Pride?"

"Not yet." She slid off her perch and approached him cautiously. "I wanted to talk to you first."

He frowned slightly. "Me?"

"Yeah." She took a deep breath. "You did a lot for me. Even though I shot you."

"I get better." He shrugged. "Perks of being the Wanderer. Besides, you saved me from Ashur. The least I could do was show some patience."

"I know. About that…" Sarah licked her lips nervously, examining him. "Do you remember the purifier?"

"Before I got blown up…" he nodded awkwardly. "And the date."

She smiled again, and was surprised to find that her action actually caused him to relax. "Do you think you could rustle up any more fresh potatoes and Brahmin steaks?" she asked.

"After we get all this sorted out and you're okay." He said. "Something to look forward to…"

Sarah stepped forward and gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. Jason seemed taken aback, but pleased. He gave he an awkward nod in thanks and set off again.

Sarah turned back to the citadel. It was time to m reacquaint herself with her old squad.

* * *

><p>Sarah pushed open the door to the Lyons' Den. Glade was fully armoured and sitting at what was formerly her desk. Sarah felt a surge of anger and jealousy as she spotted the painted symbol on the pauldrons of his enclave hellfire armour; he was now in charge of the Lyons' Pride. Despite her reservations, she had to admit, he was an excellent choice. If she had to pick, she would have chosen him, but still. It had been <em>her <em>command. _Her _squad. For the millionth time, regret and anger over the entire Point Lookout incident overtook her. She had lost so much...

Dusk was sitting on her bunk, out of uniform and reading a copy of _Nikola Tesla and You_. Studying their new weapons and technology, no doubt. Kodiak was there too, dozing gently.

Glade was the first to notice, or perhaps the first to react. He turned and got to his feet, greeting her with a worried smile. "Sarah! I'm glad you're back! How are you feeling?"

"Fine, thank you." She answered.

At hearing her name, Kodiak perked up. She met his gaze and he gave her a noncommittal smile, clearly undecided about her new reputation. The problem was Dusk, who had only buried her nose further into the book. Sarah could still make out the woman's scowl.

"How are you, Dusk?"

"Fine." The woman said, her tone saturated in a particularly virulent hostility .

Sarah felt her spirits drop. The woman hated her. For Colvin, probably. Those two had always been…complicated.

"Dusk..." she began.

"Save it." The sniper snapped.

"Dusk!" Glade barked a warning, which the prone reader ignored, burying herself deeper in her book. Kodiak got to his feet and walked over to Sarah. In complete contrast to Dusk's coldness, and to both Sarah and Glade's surprise, he embraced her. Sarah wholeheartedly returned the gesture, trying to put as much of her unspoken relief into it as she could.

"Glad you're okay, Sentinel." He said, smiling.

"Star-Paladin." Sarah corrected.

"That's what your dad said, sure." Kodiak replied with a boyish grin. "Are you retaking command?"

"Ouch, Greg." Glade joked.

"Suck it up." The Paladin challenged, his tone equally as light. "Look, she's back, she's smiling…" he gave Sarah a gentle poke in the ribs. "She's not shooting anybody."

"You keep lipping off your squad commander and that remains to be seen" Sarah responded.

"And she's cracking jokes." Kodiak added. "Let's get her in some armour already!"

There was a bang from Dusk's bed as she angrily closed her book. She rose and marched towards the door, stone-faced.

"Dawn!" Sarah moved to intercept her, using her real name.

"Don't. Fucking. Touch me!" the sniper growled, dodging Sarah's hand. The door slammed, leaving the room's three occupants in shocked silence. Keeping her eyes on the floor, Sarah very slowly walked over and sank down onto her old bunk. She put her head in her hands.

Kodiak joined her, giving her a reassuring pat on the back. Glade stared at the door for a moment, chewing his lip thoughtfully. Then he sat opposite her.

"I want you to be a part of this team." He said. "It's where you belong. We all know that. Even Dawn."

"I didn't mean to lose them, Glade." She told him hollowly. "I really didn't. I was careful. We all were. I did my best, but everything there…"

"I know." The older man said soothingly. "I know."

"No you don't." Sarah shook her head. "Neither does she. No one does. That's the problem."

"So tell us." Kodiak said.

Sarah laughed, thinking of Blackhall and the Pint-Sized Slasher, or whatever it had actually been. "You won't believe me. You'll just think I'm crazier."

"We don't think you're crazy, Sarah." Glade assured her.

"Really?" Sarah looked up at him. "Be honest, Glade. Were you going to just let me back on the team?"

"Not quite." He confessed, squirming uncomfortably. "I'd want to be sure you were up to it."

"Through a psych evaluation?"

Glade sighed.

"Fine." Sarah snarled. "Go get Phantom. He can interrogate me all he damned well likes. We'll do it in the cafeteria, where there's more people around to watch. How about that?"

"Sarah…"

"Jason trusted me." She said. "Jason believed in me."

"I know that." Glade replied. "That's why I sent you with him. You deserved the chance to get some distance, Sarah. To recover. I'll go get the Medic. He'll prove you're sane, and we can just put this entire thing behind us, alright?"

Sarah nodded. Glade rose to his feet and walked out, leaving Sarah and Kodiak sitting awkwardly on the edge of her bed.

"So…" the Paladin said, grinning. "You and 'Jason', huh? How's _that_ working out?"

She elbowed him playfully in the ribs. "Shut up, Kodiak."

* * *

><p>Brutus took a heavy seat on his concrete throne, his chin resting in his palm as he stared down at the map spread on the floor at his feet. It was accurate, he knew. Down to the last detail, kept up to date by the five Supermutant Generals surrounding it. The secret leadership of the Supermutants, and to his knowledge, the last of the Master's army.<p>

Brutus could had never run this campaign by himself. Forty years building up resources. Losing fifteen to protect forty. Planning and distracting. Slowly bleeding resources and supplies nearly as fast as he collected them. Dealing with witless underlings…

Then there was the addition of the Brotherhood, and the enclave. Not to mention, until very recently, the Lone Wanderer.

It had been a long road, and he was privately thankful that he hadn't been forced to walk it alone, as so many others of his kind had.

His five generals, the architects of the new World. Rust and Angus between them managed the hordes. Scud, a relatively small mutant, was responsible for the Behemoths. The General responsible for the overlords was named Tanka. He was an enormous mutant. At well over thirteen feet in height, he towered over the others. He'd once sent an unfortunate master through the side of a building, but they'd learned to respect his intelligence nearly as much as his fist.

Then there was Casey Jones, the oldest of Brutus' comrades, and a close friend. He was a thin, dark-skinned nightkin. No good at planning or combat, but Brutus kept him for other reasons. Casey Jones was a poet. A writer and a visionary. Brutus knew that after this war was won, he'd need the old mutant, more than any other.

The Generals were spaced evenly around the enormous map, waiting for him to comment.

"De Behemoths are armoured, sir." Scud reported in the usual irritating growl.

"And the stealthboys are ready. We got the ammo and we got the guns and we got the numbers. We can smash the humans!" Angus added. Beside him, Rust burst out in ruckus laughter, the other following suit. Yet they all fell silent as Brutus began to speak.

He said, "Do you know what the secret to breaking a people is?"

"Crush them?" Tanka suggested, grinning.

Brutus gave him a dry look. The enormous mutant's grin widened. "With my foot.

"Wrong." Brutus replied. "I mean to crush a nation. To crush the will of a nation and utterly erase it from existence."

The mutant warriors stared, mystified. "Crush all the humans?"

"Wrong again." Brutus said. "We will probably never get them all.

Casey Jones, who had been silent up until this point, raised a hand. "When you want to destroy a nation, you destroy what defines it. What holds it together. Not the bricks, but the mortar."

"Correct." Brutus smiled. "Ask yourselves, what defines the Capital Wasteland? What are the humans' symbols?"

"The Wanderer?" Angus suggested.

"The Wanderer is dead. Our Ally, Mister Burke, has dealt with him. What other symbols are there?"

"Did he crush him?" Tanka asked eagerly.

Brutus sighed. "Yes. He crushed him. With excessive force. But we need to concentrate on _this_ now. What other symbols are there?"

"The Brotherhood." Rust suggested.

"Good. Very good. And we already have a plan for them, don't we?"

This prompted a round of triumphant growls and chuckling.

"What else?" Brutus asked.

"Project Purity."

"Project Purity." Brutus nodded. "You are correct." He pointed to Angus and Rust. "You two will lead the brutes and the grunts against Project Purity. What other Symbols are there?"

"Galaxy news." Casey jones said. Tanka nodded.

"Crush Three Dog!" Brutus barked, pointing to Tanka. "Crush GNR! You will take the Overlords. Go to Galaxy News. Crush Three Dog. Break his radio station."

The enormous mutant grinned and planted his fist in his palm.

"What about you?" Casey Jones asked.

"I'm going to take you and Scud and the rest of the masters. We'll use the Behemoths to lay waste to the citadel." Brutus said. "I will see Elder Lyons kneel before me. I will see his children crushed beneath our heel and dug into the dust from whence they came. I will see them suffer for all the pain they have caused our family over these twenty long years. But remember, my Brothers, don't kill them all." He smiled slightly, taking up his sword. "We'll need to replenish our numbers after this war is over."

**And strangely enough… A lighter chapter. That's okay. Things'll get dark again soon. I can't seem to quite decide on the tone of this story. The inconsistency is bothering me.**

**For the confused among you, details on Burke, Jackrum, and the Talon Company's change in management can be found in Aqua Vitae. It'll clear up a lot of outstanding issues. The seven mercs Jason references were the same ones Jackrum 'banished' at the end of Aqua Vitae.**

**Also, I finally updated Pro Posterus, if anyone remembers it. (yes, it's a shameless plug, but it's a very relevant one. This trilogy is part of a larger planned series, after all, and I'm planning a pretty big reveal at the end of that one so stay turned if you're into this. It's coming soon.)**


	8. Chapter 8

Mutatis Mutandis 8

Sarah sat on a cot in the Citadel's med-bay, kicking her feet gently. She was acutely aware of Vargas' inert form lying on a cot in the corner of the room. The sight made her think of that day so long ago. The Pride had been patrolling the ruins for mutants. Turned out the beasts had set an ambush for them. The rest of the Pride had been driven back into the Arlington Library, where the Paladin had been horrifically injured. Sarah herself had been captured and taken north, setting off a long string of events which had resulted in her meeting and actually getting to know Jason. So something good had come of it, though the whole thing had also resulted in her demotion to Star-paladin. She turned to watch Phantom, the Citadel's resident doctor.

"So, what are you going to do?" she asked as the medic set about preparing a clipboard. Phantom turned a couple of sheets over the top and licked the tip of his pen. If he'd had glasses, he would have peered at her over the top of them.

"Dis here's a Psych Eval, yeah?" the former raider asked.

"Yes."

"Hmm…" He scribbled a few notes down on his paper. "And how are you feeling today, Sarah?"

"Mildly annoyed." She answered. "How long is this going to take?"

"Not long." Phantom said. "So… you were up north with the Wanderer, eh?"

"I was."

"Came straight back here?"

"Megaton first." She answered, turning to Glade. "Speaking of which, Jason showed me a tunnel which goes right underneath Western D.C.. There's a sewer entrance on the north side of the bridge. The other end is in the sewer waystation near the Super-Duper mart."

"That'd put us right beside Megaton." The Star-Paladin mused. "Useful."

"Getting back to your relationship with the Lone Wanderer…" Phantom interrupted smoothly, "Do you still feel the urge to shoot him?"

"No." Sarah gave him a sour look.

"I see." Phantom. "And do you still believe that …uhh… what was it now?" he flipped a few more pages. "Ah, yes. Life as a human being is a meaningless coincidence?"

"No." She answered.

"Really? We don't live on a calm, naive little island of stupidity and ignorance, floatin' through the blackest depths of space?"

Sarah scowled. The former raider looked as though he was enjoying himself a little too much. "Aren't things out there that could destroy our entire world by snortin' in dey'ah sleep? Won't we one day open up the blinds of reality and find out where we _really_ stand; how much we _really _mean?"

"Shut up." She snapped, her cheeks growing red. It really did sound crazy, now that she'd gotten some distance.

"Do you believe that our lives, and what matters down here in the Capital Wasteland is pointless in the grand scheme'o things? Completely irrelevant? Just like you and me?" Phantom asked.

"You know what," Sarah growled, "I'm not cured yet. I'm having a few homicidal urges. And a headache. Big headache. Mark _that_ part down. It's important."

Phantom stared at her for a moment, then looked down at his clipboard and made a note or two. "Let's try somethin' different." Once again, the medic licked the tip of his pen and held it poised over his clipboard. "Tell me about your childhood, Sarah."

He received nothing more than a cold glare..

"…Alright then." Working quickly, Phantom took the end off his pen and dribbled a fair amount of ink onto the paper. He folded the newly desecrated sheet in half and pressed the two sides together. Then opened it up and showed her the resulting mess. "What do you see?"

"A waste of a perfectly good pen." She replied severely. "We don't have that many left, you know."

"Okay." Phantom dipped back end of the pen into the fresh ink and made a rough check mark on his clipboard. "And do you feel like killing everyone you see? Gutting them like molerats?"

"…No?" Sarah hazarded.

"Good enough." Phantom made another check mark and turned to Glade. "She's good to go."

"That's… that's it?" The Star-Paladin crossed his arms. "That's your idea of a psych evaluation?"

"Last time I asked one of my patients that question, he answered 'Yes' and tried to steal one of my kidneys. Ashur still found him sane enough to forage for us." Phantom shrugged lightly. "Take what you can get. She's perfectly good cannon fodder. I mean… cleared for active duty."

"Now wait a sec-" Glade began. He was interrupted by shouts of alarm. Feet pounded along the corridor outside.

"Sorry, Glade." Sarah said, hopping off of her cot. "Duty calls."

* * *

><p>"Well…" Three Dog eyed Jason curiously, humming in his golden baritone voice. "My my my… the Lone Wanderer, right here. in <em>my<em> studio. And what can we here at GNR do for the Savior of Humanity today?"

"I need to broadcast a message." Jason fought back a smile. He always enjoyed talking to Three Dog. The DJ had such… flamboyance. He was a cornerstone of the capital wasteland's civilization. Through his broadcasts, he had brought hope to the wasteland's battered residents. Almost every action Jason had ever performed had made it to the DJ's ear. And it was Three Dog's influence which had turned Jason Howlett into the Lone Wanderer. The paragon of hope and moral righteousness. It wasn't the truth. Not quite. But it was a useful enough lie that Jason allowed it to continue.

"A message, huh?" Three Dog grinned at him. "I think we can manage that."

He led Jason into his studio. A rather nostalgic song was echoing through the DJ's abode. Jason recognized it. It had been one of his personal favorites during his first few weeks out of the vault; Way Back home, by Bob Cosby.

The two of them sat in silence, letting the song play through. After it had finished, the DJ switched off the player and leaned into the microphone.

"My friends…" he said with quiet energy. "We're interrupting this with a live broadcast to give you a message from a _very _special guest. Someone y'all should recognize, and thank, for our deliverance-"

"Stop." Jason ordered, pulling the DJ away from his microphone. "This isn't a courtesy call." He picked the microphone up and held it to his lips. "This is the Lone Wanderer speaking. This is an emergency message. The Mutants are coming. Arm yourselves. Barricade your settlements. Get underground if you can. Evan King, Uncle Roe, Red, Lucas Simms, we've talked about this. Get your people to safety." He set the microphone down and turned to Three Dog. "Did you record that?"

The DJ nodded silently, staring wide-eyed at Jason.

"Good. Set it to repeat on an infinite loop."

"Can do." The man immediately set about, flicking switches and swapping tapes out. He turned back to Jason. "Soo. A mutant invasion, huh? Somethin' you want to share with ol' Three Dog?"

"No." Jason said. "But you should get out of here. GNR is vulnerable. You're too close to the ruins."

"What, leave my baby?" Three-Dog gestured at the studio. "Not even in your dreams, my friend. Besides, we got the best of the Brotherhood waiting right outsi-"

An explosion shook the building. The muffled staccato of distant gunfire echoed through the studio, along with alarmed yells. Both men stopped, heads turned reflexively in the direction of the explosion.

"So… not next week, then?" The DJ asked.

"No." Jason said, shaking his head frantically. "Not now! Not yet!" he broke into a run. "_We're not ready_!"

Jason barreled down the stairs and through the hallway. He leapt over the sandbag-reinforced railing to land in the center of the radio station's atrium. The first thing he saw through the open doors was a cowering Brotherhood soldier, with a supermutant overlord looming over him, brandishing a supersledge. Jason let out a primal bellow of rage and charged at the mutant, pulling out his combat knife.

He planted it in the mutant's throat as he impacted. His momentum carried both combatants down the front steps of GNR studios. Jason rolled off the dead overlord, his momentum carrying him even further. He came up with his chinese assault rifle shouldered, emptying all thirty-six rounds into the loose clusters of encroaching supermutants, sending them scrambling for cover, and killing a few.

The pinned brotherhood soldiers added their fire to his own, momentarily driving back the enemy and giving him a chance to take cover behind the sandbag barricade at the bottom of the steps. Bullets began to flood towards the brotherhood soldiers, pinging off their armour, taking chunks out of the concrete walls, and draining the sandbags. The sheer amount of debris flying around the battlefield forced Jason to squint. He leaned out from behind his cover and opened fire on an overlord who had taken refuge behind the plaza's central fountain. The creature's tri-beam rifle dropped to the ground as Jason's well-aimed bursts severed the beast's radial nerve, rendering its arm useless.

A barrage of assault rifle fire forced him back behind cover. Jason kept his head down, crawling on his stomach until the angles of the barricade gave him enough shelter for a mad dash back up the stairs.

Bolstered by their minor victory, more overlords poured into the plaza. The only thing which save the Brotherhood from being immediately overwhelmed was the sheer lack of cover. The plaza was a wide open area. A shooting gallery for those knights lucky enough to be on the station's second floor balconies. The trouble was that every mutant they dropped acted as cover for the ones to follow, and so the mutant lines began to slowly inch their way across the plaza towards GNR.

Jason did what he could to slow them down, but it became apparent after a few minutes that slowing them down was all he was doing. A Brotherhood knight ahd realized it too, and pulled him back into the building. The soldier turned out to be Knight Dillon, the commander of the GNR outpost.

"This is just the first wave. They're testing us." he reported, "My scouts said there's overlords backed up all the way to Chevy Chase. The hell's going on?"

"The muties are making a push." Jason replied. "We need to hold here."

"Hold?" Dillon asked incredulously, even as the overlords began another push forward. "Against that? How the hell do you figure-"

"With guns and ammo." Jason said. He took cover in the doorway and spotted one overlord, trying to crawl its way over another's body. He let out nine rounds in three strict bursts, watching chunks of skull fly from the mutant's contorted face.

More fire of a different kind drove the Wanderer back into the shadowy lobby. The Brotherhood's enemy had lined up several mutants on the upper stories of the bombed out building. The beasts were armed with hunting rifles, far more powerful and accurate than the assault rifles and tri-beam laser rifles. Jason had no doubt that some missile launchers were very going to appear very quickly.

"We don't have that many guns! Or troops! This isn't the citadel, this is an outpost!" Dillon called out, reloading his minigun. "We don't even have the new tech yet."

"Well then we need to get Three Dog out of here!" Jason yelled over the sound of assault rifle fire.

"Yeah." Dillon laughed. "You go do that."

"You guys are coming with."

Dillon surveyed the lines of overlords, creeping closer. He growled in frustration. "Don't be stupid, Wanderer! We all run, we all die. My boys stay, you and Three Dog get the hell out."

"Unacceptable." Jason said.

The knight flinched as a few well-aimed rounds pinged off his armour and buried themselves in the door frame. "Wasn't asking. Know my job. Get the crazy bastard out, Wanderer!" the knight gave him a rough push, his power-armour's strength making the Wanderer stumble towards the stairs.

Jason looked back, but the Knight had already rejoined the battle.

A part of Jason fought to stay, to fight. But the knight's point was driven home by the sudden wave of missiles which came flying across the plaza and lit up GNR's entrance.

Jason gave the busy soldiers a final respectful nod, and set off up the stairs. He burst through the door of Three Dog's studio. The man was already on his feet, pistol in hand. Jason's recorded message was still playing, set on repeat.

"The hell's going on out there?" Three Dog demanded.

Jason glared at the DJ. "We're going."

"I'm not leaving my-" the man's breath left his lungs as Jason's fist pounded into his abdomen, throwing him to his knees.

"What makes you think you have a choice?" The Wanderer demanded. He grabbed the DJ by the scruff off his neck and marched him out the door.

"What about the Brotherhood?"

"They'll buy us time." The Wanderer said. "They're expendable. You're not!"

"You're just gonna let'em die?"

"Sacrificed for the Good Fight, Three Dog. Apparently I'm out of time."

* * *

><p>Sarah burst out the door into the courtyard. It was in chaos. Paladins were shouting confused orders. Knights were running back and forth, some of them actually assembling their power armour as they went. Glade, who had followed her out, grabbed a passing knight. "What's going on?"<p>

"We're under attack!" the man said breathlessly, and pulled away, hurrying to join Paladin Gunny. A familiar and dreaded roar sounded from beyond the walls of the citadel, turning Sarah's heart to ice. Her condition wasn't helped by the fact that it was answered in kind. Several different times.

The top of the citadel was ringed with lookouts and a catwalk. Sarah found the nearest ladder and rushed to the top as fast as she could, with Glade at her heels. She could hear more shouts of alarm, even more roars and …splashing water? The Brotherhood guards at the top had already started firing at their unseen adversaries, and the courtyard below was buzzing with activity as knights and scribes rushed to and fro, organizing fire teams and battle plans.

She reached the top of the ladder and stood on the lookout, staring across the river in horror. Glade joined her and followed her gaze.

"Oh…fuck." He said in quiet fear.

Behemoths were pouring out of the DC ruins across the river, fording it easily. A dozen at least, standing up to seven or eight meters in height. They had been covered in thick armour plating from head to toe, bent by hand and stripped from the carcasses of moving vans, box trucks, and freight trailers. The front ranks of the giant monsters were armed with their signature enormous fire hydrant clubs. The back ranks were carrying boulders and small cars.

Bouncing green orbs began to arc over the river, raining down on the giants. The new alien weaponry was being handed along the upper catwalk as the Brotherhood resistance began to take shape. Most of the orbs missed their targets completely, being extinguished by the water. Some of them hit odd angles of the Behemoth's armour and bounced away uselessly. Occasionally one would hit at just the right angle, or make contact with a patch of the orange flesh. At that point a blinding green supernova would occur, and the mutant's torso and upper body would vanish, its remains falling into the river. But for every behemoth which was taken down, one or two new ones would emerge from the ruins across the river.

Her eye was drawn to the bridge, where a horde of supermutant masters were marching forward in a slow, deliberate military formation. She spotted the distant tiny figure at the tip of their proverbial spear. A Supermutant with dark blue skin, carrying an enormous sword. She turned back into the courtyard and screamed in a high-pitched tone with cut above the din. "_SOMEONE GE ME A FATMAN UP HERE_!"

There was an explosion of concrete and twisted metal, shaking the entire wall. The debris rained down into the courtyard, disrupting the battle-lines and crushing a few unfortunate knights. Sarah stared at the damage; a lookout post across the courtyard from her had been destroyed, as was a fair chunk of the wall underneath it, cutting the amount of fire being poured on the behemoths in half. She stared down at the projectile which had done the damage: a small car. It hand landed in the shooting range, and was flaming furiously. She could hear the shouts of alarm as the knights were forced to scatter from it. A moment later it exploded, showering the entire courtyard in radioactive debris.

She looked back at the behemoths, most of which were nearly across the river. Another behemoth prepped its own missile: a Nuka-Cola machine. Even as it wound up, one of the green orbs caught the exposed orange flesh of its shoulder. Most of the monster vanished, vaporized by the small green supernova. Its hand, still gripping the Nuka-Cola machine, dropped into the river with a splash.

The Knight who had fired the shot cheered. A moment later he was impaled by the multiple jutting spikes of a well-aimed knot of twisted rebar. The circular projectile was the size of a desk. It swiped the celebrating knight right off the tower, carrying him far into the courtyard, finally rolling to a blood-spattered halt near the sand pit.

"Move!" Glade shouted, grabbing Sarah about the waist. She had a momentary view of an enormous flat chunk of concrete spinning towards their lookout like an enormous Frisbee before the world spun out of control. The sky and the courtyard morphing into one blue-gray blur, and her stomach dropped out as Glade threw both of them over the edge, trying to escape. A moment later found her staring down into the courtyard. The deadly discus had sheared the ladder four rungs for the top. Everything above them, the platform Sarah had been standing on not a moment before, was gone, torn away by the well-aimed chunk of concrete.

With one arm, Glade as holding on for dear life a few rungs form the twisted top of the ladder. His other was around Sarah's waist. She shook her head to clear it, and found some footholds. The man gasped and let her go so he could sort himself out.

Sarah slid down to the bottom of the ladder, gripping it tightly with her elbows and the insteps of her combat boots. She grabbed a few confused knights and began to organize a defense. More Brotherhood soldiers were pouring into the courtyard, and she spotted a few with mininuke launchers. Most of them had stopped dead, staring in shock at the fallen battlements. She pulled them to the middle of the courtyard and ordered them to stay put, and began to order the knights to form a base of fire, using the mininuke launchers as the nucleus. They were split up in groups of three or four, scattered across the courtyard in a ragged line. Snipers at the back, rifles in the middle, assault rifles and miniguns at the front. She tried to look confidant, but didn't hold out much hope; she'd be surprised if even Jason's presence would have helped to stop _this_.

The barrage of missiles had ceased, thankfully. And she had a few moments of peace she turned to see her father striding calmly through the wreckage. "Sarah, what's going on?"

"Get downstairs!" she ordered, pointing at the laboratory doors. "We're under attack. Behomoths."

As if to accentuate her point, the giants outside began to roar. The Brotherhood knights clutched their weapons uncertainly, glancing backwards at their Elder.

"Steady!" Glade shouted, calming them . "You've trained for this." The other Paladins followed his example, calming their own fire teams.

A sniper brushed by Sarah's shoulder, and she realized it was Dusk. She met the woman's eye with a questioning expression. The sniper met her gaze blankly: it was time to fight. The time for talk would be later.

Sarah turned back to her father. "Where's Rothchild?"

"With the other scribes." Elder Lyons said, watching the flurry of activity. "Trying to get Liberty Prime working again."

"Well let's hope he works well under pressure." She said grimly. "Now get back inside! Get downstairs!" The man obeyed. No sooner had he exited the courtyard, then it was filled with noise as the behemoths began to pound at the front gate. At least the guards had had the sense to lower the portcullis.

"It's alright." Gunny said confidently, striding up to them. "That gate is three feet thick. They're not going to get through it."

And he was right. The Behemoths came tearing straight through the Citadel walls instead, laying the fortress to ruins.

* * *

><p><strong>Might change this story's rating to 'M'. Dunno. I'm a little worried I might lose readers. I already know of one or two readers who actually skipped Aqua Vitae because it was rated M.<strong>


	9. Chapter 9

Mutatis Mutandis 9

As soon as they exited the back door of GNR, Jason and Three-Dog came under fire. More Overlords were gathered in the pit below, blocking Jason's access to the collapsed train tunnel. He shoved the DJ against the wall and began to return fire, aiming for the mutants' weapons. The familiar sharp, pain made him grimace as three bullets tore into his chest, knocking him backwards.

They didn't slow him down much. He remembered when that pain used to paralyze him. It didn't anymore. Hadn't for a long time. It was a part of his job. One he was unfortunately used to. Inevitable in situations like these, which didn't happen very often. He was usually able to end it without his enemies firing a shot.

But not today. Today the sun was beating down on him, beginning the slow familiar process of healing. He injected a stimpack to speed it up a little and smiled at Three-Dog.

"Sweet Jesus." The man said, staring at his wounds.

"Bug bites." Jason replied. He poked a finger into the shallowest of the wounds and forced out the piece of lead, dropping it on the ground. Then he gritted his teeth and stood, whirling around with his Chinese assault rifle and emptying all 36 rounds into the front of a broken-down passenger bus. It spoke a lot about the intelligence of the mutants, that they were taking cover in a pit full of cars with unstable nuclear reactors, and the Wanderer found himself looking forward to the explosion.

There was a minor one first. Familiar. Smoke and flames began to billow from underneath the vehicle. The Overlords stopped firing, staring at it uncertainly. Then it erupted in a giant mushroom cloud, throwing debris dozens of meters into the air. The explosion set off a chain reaction. The other cars followed suit and the ground rumbled as the entire area was filled with forceful noise and nuclear fire.

"Sweet Jesus." Three Dog said again, standing beside him.

Jason waited patiently for the smoke to clear. There wasn't much left of the Overlords. Or of anything else, either. Just the plink of cooling metal, and the thud of landing debris. He leapt off their shallow ledge, pulling the DJ with him.

He reloaded his assault rifle and held it out in front of him, scanning the slope. He started forward, pushing Three Dog in front of him, keeping the man crouched. They moved at a jogging pace, with Jason's left arm gripping the scruff of Three Dog's neck. His right arm held the assault rifle, ready to blow the head off any mutant still left alive. They moved quickly through the irradiated area. When they got to the other side, Three Dog looked back at GNR and groaned. "My baby…"

Jason glanced backwards. The sounds of gunfire and screams of the dying, both human and Supermutant could still be heard. Jason handed the man his rifle. He walked back into the irradiated pit, stomping across the debris and waited for his Geiger counter to reach four hundred. Then he walked back to Three Dog.

"live to fight another day." Jason intoned, taking his rifle back. He lead into the DJ into darkness of the DC metro, and to safety.

* * *

><p>Sarah planted her assault rifle down on the makeshift barricade and opened fire on the line of supermutant masters which was slowly making its way towards them.<p>

"We hold here!" she ordered to the motley crew of knights and scribes, all of whom were holding weapons. "This is it. Do not let them pass this point."

The barricade stood at the entrance to the labs. The Brotherhood's final hold-out position. By Sarah's estimation, there were about thirty Brotherhood fighters left, a third of them scribes. The sounds of resistance from other parts of the Citadel had ceased nearly ten minutes ago. The Brotherhood had been driven into the Citadel hallways very early on in the fight, practically the moment the Behemoths came bursting through the walls. No infantry line was able stand something so enormous.

Things would have been much worse were it not for the alien upgrades Jason had shared. The first three behemoths had fallen to a barrage of the green orbs, and the enclave armour had allowed the Brotherhood's thin line to hold long enough to get the majority of knights back into the citadel tunnels. As far as Sarah knew, none of those brave few who had stood in defense, survived. But their sacrifice would be for naught if the entire situation devolved any further. As hard as it was to admit to herself, she was having trouble seeing a way out.

She reminded herself that the Brotherhood had always managed to pull through in the past. Perhaps Rothchild would get Liberty Prime working.

Sarah barreled through the doorway and down to the upper floor of the laboratory. She half ran, half leaped down the steps to the bottom floor, and confronted Peabody, the scribe standing in front of Liberty Prime's scrap metal body.

"How are we doing?" she demanded. "How much longer do you need?"

"Ideally? A few weeks." The Scribe admitted. "But we're trying."

"Get it done!" Sarah barked.

There were a few other survivors in the laboratory. Glade had taken a few knights under his wing, and was busy working with Kodiak to barricade the upper floor's other entrance, which opened directly into the courtyard. Even as Sarah watched, a few armoured knights exchanged fire with the Supermutant forces, standing at the top of the staircase.

Sarah's own barricade, blocking the A-ring entrance, was probably going to end up in the same situation. The twin bottlenecks did have an advantage: If things continued, the muties would plug the holes with their own dead long before they managed to kill off the Brotherhood soldiers. The drawback was that the laboratory was not equipped for a prolonged siege, and something in the planning and determination of the mutant attack told Sarah that they weren't about to leave.

She could her the muffled crashing above, and could only assume that they were laying the rest of the Citadel to waste. A part of her was frozen in disbelief; the Citadel couldn't fall. That was an impossibility. One that she had to put aside. She would deal with the how afterwards. The fact was that it was happening, like it or not.

"Sarah!" she turned to see her father striding towards them, a worried look on his face. He glanced up at the barricades. "How are we doing?"

"We're holding. But if this becomes a siege, we're fucked." She said. More loud crashes shook the laboratory, and Glade's team exchanged a few rounds with the angry invaders, driving them back yet again.

"We have the armory." He said.

"But no food or water." She replied quickly. "Dad, we either die here or cut our way out."

There was a clang, and then a muffled thump from directly above the empty elevator which had once held the magnificent robot, Liberty Prime. Sarah grabbed her father and carefully pulled them both back. More unwelcome noises echoed through the chamber. Shrill laughter, and growled orders.

Suddenly, brilliant sunlight lanced down through the ceiling. The enormous round hatch was being forced open. Mighty steel girders were being forced through the thin gap, widening it further. She could hear the grunts and roars of the Supermutant behemoths as they forced the trapdoor's groaning mechanisms into submission, and wedged enormous bulks of twisted steel in the gap, keeping it open.

The knights and scribes began to fire through the new hole in the ceiling, slowing down the Behemoths' steady progress. The action slowed it down, but did not stop it, and eventually the hatch was open, revealing the pale blue calm of the sky above.

A behemoth's forceful bellow echoed through the central chamber. Sarah stared as an entire bus, coughing smoke, was thrust through the gap and fell to the bottom of the laboratory, landing on top of Liberty Prime's inert machinery, and throwing Peabody to his knees.

The bus lurched sideways as something inside it burst, setting off a chain reaction. The air was suddenly filled with fire, and an irresistible force, tossing her like a ragdoll in a tumble dryer. The last coherent thing Sarah saw was Peabody being engulfed in flame. The laboratory spun with her and she slammed into a concrete wall and dropped to the floor, dazed.

At the same moment, heavily armoured behemoths dropped down through the opening on clanking chains. They swarmed into the Brotherhood's last sanctuary like hornets from streaming from the bottom of an angered nest. For every mutant the defenders dropped, two more would take its place.

Sarah picked herself up, trying to shake her dazed mind into action. There was no sound, only the ringing in her ears. Her eyes couldn't seem to quite focus, either. Her father was lying nearby, and she was just coherent enough to register the man's lack of movement.

Green and yellow light began to flash around her as she stumbled to her feet. She scrambled for her assault rifle and used it to prop herself up as she half crawled, half walked towards her father's body. Something hit her in the back, sending waves of pain and paralyzing shock through her system, and once again sending her tumbling through the air. She landed heavily beside her father, and rolled onto her back. Her assault rifle was gone, and she watched as a blurred, monstrous shape tramped towards her. It reached down with one sinewy arm and picked her up by the front of her shirt. And there was the mutant's fist, swinging towards her face like the wrath of god.

Sarah's world went dark.

* * *

><p>A figure sat atop a ruined building on the east bank of the Potomac. He was a giant of a man. Not obese, just built one tenth over-size. His herculean physique was supplemented by the smoothly curving plates of black and dark gray power armour. His face was covered in an insectoid helmet with yellow goggles and a few oddly-fitted breathing tubes.<p>

He was watching the destruction of the citadel through the scope of his enormous white BOZAR light machine gun. He could hear the screams of the wounded brotherhood soldiers, the muffled echoes of distant gunfire, and the bellows of the behemoths.

There was a quiet noise as his companion took a seat next to him. The newcomer was clad in a trenchcoat and a fedora. He wasn't nearly as well armed, possessing nothing more than sharp wits and a .44 magnum, but then, he had never needed to be.

"I have to admit," the armoured man told him, "This stings a little."

The mysterious stranger glanced at the carnage across the river and smiled briefly. "In that case, I suppose I bring good tidings."

"Yeah?"

"I'm afraid we can no longer afford to stand idle." the stranger said, "I have to leave. Developments in the West."

"Legion lost?

"Yes."

"Good for the NCR."

"They lost too."

The armoured man gave him a look of shock, examining him through the yellow lenses of his insectoid armour helmet.

"Something tipped the balance in House's favor."

"That's not good." The armoured man observed unhappily. "Not good at all. We'll need a united front."

"There's more." The Stranger told him grimly, "Rumor has it that someone survived the incident at the Divide."

The armoured figure looked up at him. "How?"

"I don't know. I'm going to go find out." The Stranger stared thoughtfully at the carnage. "You stay here. Make trouble for Brutus. We need to know what he gave the Good Doctor. Find out."

The power-armoured figure slapped a fresh magazine into his BOZAR and stared across the river. The Behemoths were setting about destroying the Citadel. They were using giant clubs to knock down the walls and reduce the once magnificent structure to a ring of rubble. More masters in the center of the courtyard were slowly building up an enormous pile of bodies.

The heap was already as tall as some of the shorter mutants, forcing them to fling the armoured Brotherhood corpses on top. The mutant corpses, of which there were also many, were being laid out in respectful rows.

"My Pleasure." The armoured man said grimly.

"I'd recommend fixing the SatCom arrays." The Stranger advised.

"Highwater-Trousers?"

The mysterious stranger motioned at the army of Behemoths patiently dismantling the pre-war structure. "Can you see any resistance standing up to _that_?"

"I thought this was supposed to be a test."

"It is. That's why I'm not ordering you to kill Brutus. This is still Howlett's fight. We'll just do what we always do …adjust the odds a little."

* * *

><p>Brutus stared down at the two strangest of his prisoners. The first was a child. The small boy's eyes were tightly shut, and his arms were hugging a comic book to his chest. He was whimpering softly. Brutus carefully reached out and laid a hand upon the child's head. Its hair was quite soft, its limbs spindly and small. It looked fragile, like a china cup. Easily broken. Easily crushed.<p>

"Don't touch him, you brute!" The second prisoner snarled, struggling against his captor's hold. He was an old man, with a white beard and the robes of a scholar. Blood caked the side of his face, and he looked to be near the end of his time.

"You think me one, don't you?" Brutus asked, removing his hand from the child's head. "What is this little one's name?"

"Arthur Maxson."

"The last Maxson…" Brutus mused thoughtfully, eyeing the child. The Maxons had run the Brotherhood back when the Master had first set out to create a Supermutant nation. And now their last descendant was at Brutus' mercy. The Mutant let out a barking laugh, enjoying the irony of the situation. The universe truly worked in mysterious ways. "Ha! And what is your name, human?"

Brutus was impressed. The old human, even with his home lying in smoking ruins, the bodies of his knights being piled behind him, still found the inner strength to meet Brutus' gaze with a steady, calm glare. "Elder Owyn Lyons. Capital Wasteland Brotherhood of Steel. Leave the child alone. Whatever quarrel you have, you will exact your punishment on me. Let the child go!"

"Hmm…" Brutus tapped his chin with one hand, and pulled out his enormous sword with the other, hefting it thoughtfully.

Lyons looked down at the ground, letting out a long quiet breath. He said, "You wear armour into battle. You command an army. You carry a weapon. You are a Warrior."

Brutus began to laugh, watching the feeble old human. "A warrior, I am." He bent down on one knee, confronting the Brotherhood leader eye to eye. "But what makes you think this is war, Elder Lyons of the Capital Wasteland Brotherhood of Steel?" Brutus asked, pitting the last three words out as if they carried a foul taste.

The old human simply glared at him.

"This is an extermination." Brutus told him, rising to his feet. "Mankind is nothing more than a pestilence we must rid ourselves of before we can move forward."

"Move forward to _what_?"

It wasn't Brutus that answered, but Casey Jones. The old mutant had wandered up from the riverside to stand beside Brutus and observe. He began to recite The Poem. It was Brutus' favorite, and the only thing he'd had to cling to during the century-long chase across the country.

_When Man's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,  
>When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died,<br>We shall rest, and we shall need it - lie down for an aeon or two,  
>Until The Master of all the wastelands shall put us to work anew.<em>

_And those that were good shall be happy; before an iron throne they shall kneel;  
>They shall splash at the world's canvas with brushes of stone and steel.<br>They shall find real saints to draw from –those servants who didn't fall;  
>They shall work for an age at a time and never tire at all!<em>

_And only The Master shall praise us, and only The Master shall blame;  
>And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame,<br>But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,  
>Shall draw the thing as he sees it for the Master of things as they are.<em>

As the mutant spoke, Brutus had moved behind the old human. He wrapped his fingers delicately around the throat of the Brotherhood's leader, and squeezed. It was a short process. His objective was not to cause pain, or to suffocate. He simply increased the pressure until he felt the quiet crack of the old man's spine. Elder Lyons' eyes bulged for a moment as he went limp in the mutant's grasp, and then the light left them entirely. Brutus dropped the carcass on the ground and turned to the child. The cockroach, still clutching its comic book.

"The Lone Wanderer will save me." The boy said. "He'll kill you."

The Supermutant king hefted his sword, feeling its comfortable grip in his palm. He paused for a moment, glancing at the impassive face of Casey Jones. He said, "I very much doubt that, little one."

* * *

><p><strong>So… yeah. It's rated 'Mature' now. I intend to pull no punches. Any problems, mistakes, whatnot… lay'em on me.<strong>

**Oh, and uh, Happy Birthday, Krow Blood.**

***edited 12/11/05- added the poem from the old version of chapter 5 in there, along with Brutus' new allies.**


	10. Chapter 10

Mutatis Mutandis 10

Sarah felt water lapping gently at her face. Cold ocean air filled her lungs, and she tasted salt upon her lips. She coughed and dug her fingers into the gritty sand, turning her aching body over onto her back. Sunlight lanced through her eyelids, turning them red. She squinted and turned her head away reflexively, listening to the steady toll of the buoy bells.

A sudden coolness on her skin told her that someone was blocking the light. She forced her aching eyes open. Sarah found herself focusing on the sky. It was black and broiling. Hundreds upon thousands of twisting, searching tentacles of smog pulled free from pulsating lumps in the morass. The macabre streamers wriggled their way along the bottoms of the clouds, only to find other nodes, and be slowly reabsorbed. The strange smoke covered the entire sky, save for one pinprick. A thin beam of light, which bathed her pitiful stretch of coastline.

A figure was standing over her, blurred, and defined by shadows. It was carrying a beaten sniper rifle, and staring down at her. She could make out the subtle shades of gray where two eyes should have been, but the shadows obscured anything more.

"Am I dead?" she asked.

The figure leaned down, finally throwing its own face into focus. The eyes were sunken and white with cataracts. The lips were cracked and stained with blood, caked with dried salt. Its skin was green and white, stretched back, showing the white skeletal frame beneath. The face was translucent and dead in places, as if it had suffered through scorching heat. Sarah could see the bones and muscle mass beneath, rotted and sour. Tendrils of the black fog seemed to follow it, exude from it. Whatever the apparition might once have been, it was a different creature now.

But she recognized it nonetheless.

Her lips parted slightly. "Gallows?"

The ghoulish reaper's mouth opened far too wide, like a devouring serpent, and it screamed at her in an unearthly howl, trying to imitate human speech with tools never fit for the task.

"WAKE UP!"

* * *

><p>Sarah's eyes snapped open, and she took a heavy breath. Her lungs and nose filled with a familiar and unwelcome stench, and a heavy weight pressed down on her legs, trapping her in place. She coughed and stared up into the star-strewn midnight sky, the memories slowly flowing back from the abyss, into her pounding head. Something was poking into the small of her back.<p>

She struggled, squirming a little. She searched for a handhold, and froze as her questing fingers touched a human face. She finally looked down at the weight holding her legs in place, and she grimaced in disgust.

It was Phantom, still wearing a lab coat. His left eye was missing. Only a black, star-shaped hole remained. Sarah began to struggle madly as her situation was suddenly made clear to her; She was lying on a pile of bodies. The Brotherhood's dead fighters. Familiar faces with vacant eyes stared up at her. The massive pile towered over the crumbled ring of detritus; all that was left of the mighty citadel walls.

She struggled madly, kicking the dead medic away. She clambered to the edge, her hands and feet slipping deep into the fissures, getting tangled in hair and hands and legs. She grabbed onto the shoulder of a disrobed scribe and pulled, at the same time pushing with her feet. She felt her toes slip across the face of an anonymous body, and found purchase against the open jaw. As she pushed she felt the hinge dislocate with a nauseating scrape, but she was able to push herself forward onto an armoured knight, and peer over the edge of the heap.

Night had fallen, and the sky was black as tar. The only light she had was the faint yellow of the mutant campfires which had been set up between the ruined fortress and the River. She could see the silhouettes of the camp guards, patrolling the perimeter of the citadel.

She waited until the nearest one had passed, and then pulled herself forward and tumbled down the heap of bodies, landing hard on the pavement. Just yesterday, the spot she was lying on had been the shooting range. And over _there_ was the sandpit, used for sparring.

The heap shifted slightly, sending a second corpse rolling wildly down to land beside her with a crunch, the neck twisted in an impossible way. Sarah recognized the corpse. It was a black woman with cropped hair and a stern expression. The newly-minted Sentinel Cross. Her hammer was nowhere in sight, and she was missing an arm, though all blood had long since run dry, and the stringy stump was covered in sand.

Trying to put the woman's blank eyes out of her mind, Sarah looked to the rubble, trying to recreate the layout of the citadel. The med-bay had been _there_. An enormous chunk of concrete sat in what was left of the briefing room. The barracks were a mess, open to the sky. The mattresses having been flung across the entire area, and torn apart.

Sarah winced and glanced back at the pile of bodies. A part of her wanted to search through it. Her friends were in there. Her family. Where was her father?

But she stopped herself. This was Point Lookout all over again. Questions would only get her killed. Survival was key, and the first step… escape. Second step: Find weapon. Third step: find supplies. Fourth step …find Jason. Fifth step?

…Vengeance.

Avoiding the mutant patrols, and trying to ignore her aching head, she stumbled north toward the sewer waystation.

* * *

><p>Rothchild's feet ached madly, but he dared not stop. A wounded scribe had fallen not four minutes ago, and their mutant captors had immediately put him out of his misery, their gunfire and laughter echoing down the train tunnel. Rothchild was marching in a strict formation with roughly thirty other downcast prisoners. He recognized a few. Some scribes, and a few knights.<p>

Star-Paladin Glade was there, alongside Kodiak. The three of them would exchange the occasional glance or solemn nod. The mutants in the lead were carrying torches to light the way. Time and direction had become meaningless once they'd been marched into the train tunnels. There was only the long, slow progression, putting one foot in front of the other.

How had this happened? The mutants weren't intelligent. They couldn't plan. They couldn't think. That was the one advantage the Brotherhood had always held. One that no amount of numbers and fury on the mutants' part had ever been able to truly negate.

Rothchild wondered how long the mutants had been planning the attack for. He had been briefed on the mutant 'Brutus' by Owyn, but the intelligence had been sketchy at best.

Owyn Lyons…

In the dark tunnels, moments of reflection were plentiful, and Rothchild took a few to mourn the loss of his closest friend. If through some miracle, the Brotherhood survived this…

Things would be different. Elder Lyons had been the backbone of the Brotherhood, and when he'd been pulled out of the group of prisoners, Rothchild's last hopes for victory had been extinguished. No matter what happened now, the mutants had succeeded. The Capital Wasteland chapter could afford to lose the Citadel. Given how much the wasteland had calmed down recently, they could probably afford to lose Owyn Lyons, but not both. Now the few that were left, were nothing more than remnants. Like the Enclave. And if the dejected faces and slow march of the prisoners around him was any guess, their morale had been broken well beyond repair.

A mutant's roar echoed from further up the tunnel, and a few brutes jogged past the ragged line of prisoners, their bobbing lanterns making the shadows skip and jump wildly.

Something was happening ahead of them. As he continued forward, the reason behind the mutant's agitation became clear; they were entering a metro station. Not just any metro station, but Metro Central. A multi-leveled tangle of tracks leading in all directions.

Rothchild heard the few mutant guards behind them growl an order for the column to halt. The prisoners obeyed wordlessly, possessing neither the will, nor the energy to do anything else.

Watching from the tunnel exit, Rothchild squinted as the enormous concrete chamber was suddenly bathed in cold blue glow. A dozen floodlights turned it from a shadowy tomb into a brightly lit arena, making the mutants bellow in surprise and anger.

An enormous, power-armoured figure was standing at the top of the escalator before them. Rothchild's eyes widened as he recognized the enclave Advanced Power Armour Mark II. How long had it been since he'd set eyes on that particular piece of equipment? Twenty years? Thirty?

The mutant captors, two dozen in total, growled at the calm apparition as it hefted an enormous minigun, larger than any in the Brotherhood's armory. Another index card was pulled from the files of Rothchild's memory: C757 Avenger. High-speed motor. Gel-fin cooling. Chromium-plated bores…

A deadly weapon, and not from anywhere near the Capital Wasteland. A large white BOZAR assault rifle was slung across the armoured visitor's back, serving the same function for him that pistols and sidearms did for normal soldiers; a backup weapon, in case of emergencies.

The mutants began to growl and bellow obscene threats at their new target. It surveyed the chamber through those emotionless yellow eyeplates. Rothchild and the prisoners were pushed back into the tunnel as the mutants' leader waved its brand new super-sledge, forming them into a loose defensive line. The leader had acquired it from the cold dead fingers of Sentinel Cross, Rothchild knew. It had torn the poor woman's arm off to get it.

The armoured figure seemed to wait until there was a fair distance between the prisoners and the mutants, then it raised the minigun and opened fire, bathing their line in a deadly yellow spray of lead and tracer rounds.

As he fired, the mutant guards watching the back of the prisoner column abandoned their posts to join the fight. They were cut down in seconds along with their comrades. Those mutants smart enough to dive for cover did so, but the armoured attacker's aim was unerring, and within thirty seconds they were down to merely a quarter strength. Indeed, it seemed that the only thing which saved any of them at all was the sudden clicking noise as the Minigun ran dry of ammunition. The armoured figure looked down at his weapon, and then set it carefully at the top of the escalator, pulling out the white assault rifle in one smooth motion.

The scattered mutant remnants were moving too, and bullets began to ricochet off of the figure's impervious armour. It strode patiently down the escalator, paying the pitiful resistance no heed at all, and examining the battlefield with the yellow insectoid eyes. The figure shouldered his assault rifle as he moved, opening fire on the mutant positions, and sending a cascade of golden shells rolling down the steps of the escalator.

The visitor's ammunition had been heavily modified, and instead of creating bloody holes in the mutants, each shot tore entire chunks away, leaving Rothchild with the strange illusion that some ravenous invisible creature was devouring each target. The armoured man did not bother to mind his aim. With shots that powerful, he didn't have to. Each mutant that fell was missing arms, legs, ribs, sometimes the entire midsection would be blown out.

At last he reached the bottom of the escalator, the heavy armoured boots making waves in the growing puddle of mutant blood. After a few seconds, the figure ran out of ammunition once again. He reached backwards, pulled a magazine from a satchel at the small of his back, and began the process of reloading his weapon. The mutant captain bellowed a challenge and broke from its cover behind a pillar. It charged at the figure, waving Cross's supersledge.

The armoured man's head swung around to take in the new threat. He dropped his rifle and took up the fighting stance of a professional boxer. Rothchild noted the gleam of twin spiked power fists built into the armoured gauntlets. The mutant swung its sledge in a diagonal arc, aiming for the armoured helmet.

The man stopped the deadly blow in its tracks, using his left hand to catch the mighty hammer just behind the head. His right hand delivered an uppercut to the mutant's chin, the powerfist's added force causing the supermutant's head to explode and fountain backwards in a loose cloud of brain matter and skull chunks which landed on the concrete, making dozens of little craters in the wet dirt.

The armoured man turned to the last two mutants and tossed the supersledge. The hammer spun towards the angry creatures like a tomahawk, and there was an ugly crunch as a mutant's chest cavity was blown inwards, the ribs shattering, and tearing the monster's heart and lungs to shreds.

The mutant fell without a word, and the armoured man was already moving, kicking his white rifle up to his waiting hand. He slapped the magazine all the way in and pumped the bolt back. Then he opened fire, bracing the weapon against his hip and cutting the last mutant down.

Silence fell over the concrete tomb, punctuated only by hissing as the ever-growing puddle of mutant blood reached the hot, golden piles of spent shells.

The figure turned in the silence and tilted its head slightly, regarding the shocked line of ragged prisoners Rothchild reacted first. Taking charge, he pushed his way to the very front of the line and examined their rescuer.

"Thank you." He said.

His armour clicking and whirring, the armoured man marched over to him. He stared down at the rough knotted tightly around Rothchild's wrists, then slung his rifle over his shoulder, reached out with two enormous armoured hands, and ripped the thick rope apart with ease, freeing the Elder scribe.

"Go North." The imposing figure intoned. "The way is clear. Friendship heights, then the National Guard Depot. Arm yourselves."

"We've been to the depot." Rothchild said, "We've never been able to get into the armory."

"Door code is Five Seven Four Six."

"Where did you get that?" Rothchild demanded.

The armoured man didn't answer. Instead he turned and began to march towards escalator.

"Wait!" Glade rushed past the scribe and reached up, grabbing the enormous newcomer by the shoulder. "Where are you going? Help us!"

The figure looked over his shoulder at the Brotherhood paladin. It's voice was cold, the suits intercom system adding a strange electronic undertone to it. "I just did."

It walked away, firing one last shot at a humming generator as it passed. The floodlights cut out, engulfing the Brotherhood remnant in darkness, and the last sound Rothchild heard was the gentle plink of the golden shell hitting the floor.

* * *

><p>The room was dark. Nearly black had it not been for the faint torchlight. Just enough to give the shadows some definition. Brutus was a nightkin, and darkness was his cloak, his retreat, his home. The chamber's concrete walls were slick with green ichor. A bag of flesh lay in the corner, alongside a large tub of water. Blankets were scattered haphazardly across the floor.<p>

A figure lay in the center, hugging itself in the fetal position. It was only slightly larger than a well-built human. It shivered constantly, and every so often it would let out a soft whimper. Its skin was forest green with grey streaks along the back. It was garbed in a primitive leather loincloth, and it stared up at Brutus with jaundiced green and yellow eyes.

Clearly the Good Doctor had understood his work. The FEV II virus' progress was astounding. Only two days ago, it had been a human mercenary, and now…? If they all grew this fast, _changed_ this fast…

"You are beautiful, aren't you?" Brutus asked, smiling down at the huddled figure. "The next step. Our child. Our freedom." He watched the new mutant slowly uncurl, responding to the sound of his voice. "A product of the only true gift any human has ever given us."

He stepped forward and began to pace around the inert abomination. "What shall you be called, new one? Not Adam, though the metaphor is appropriate. That is human mythology. Human ideals. We must make our own."

The thing whimpered.

"I pray that if anything survives this revolution, it be you." Brutus whispered comfortingly, leaning down. He gently lifted the smaller mutant into his arms and coddled it as a parent would a small child. The thing didn't resist. It did not have the strength yet.

"You are Alpha." Brutus said, rocking it gently. "The first of a new breed. A better breed. After you finish growing, we shall have no need to fear the humans. We shall have a symbol. A beacon of hope for this world. No need of weapons. No need of armour. No need for war or fear."

Brutus reached down to its loincloth and gently twitched a fold aside to reveal the fully formed and functional human genitalia beneath. His smile widened. "And no need for human converts any longer. We may thank the Good Doctor for that."

He covered the creature up again and laid it gently on the floor, pulling a blanket over it to keep it warm.

"Sleep, Alpha." He said. "I will find you a mate."

It pained Brutus somewhat to know that in time, even he would be cast aside; the discarded remnants of a butterfly's cocoon. The last skull. The last body, paving the way for the future. True Utopia would come at a heavy cost. But it was one he'd spent one hundred and seventy years preparing for.


	11. Chapter 11

Mutatis Mutandis 11

"_Run!_" Hannibal ordered, pushing Alejandra ahead of him. He could hear the constant clatter of Simone's assault rifle as the woman lay down covering fire. The mutants were responding in kind, with an overwhelming amount of fire. Bullets tore chunks out of the history museum wall high above his head.

Simone had taken the nearest bluff, and had good cover behind a chunk of concrete. The rising ground was actually providing what remained of the Temple with an excellent barrier, so long as they stayed low.

How they'd managed to escape the Lincoln memorial and get this close to the Museum of History was a miracle. But they'd heard the Wanderer's broadcasted warning, and started moving just before the hordes arrived. Their escape had still cost them Bill, Caleb, and Four Score.

They reached the Museum's metro station and took shelter at the narrow concrete railing. Simone followed a few moments later, limping slightly; a bullet had grazed her leg. She was waving her arms furiously, yelling at them to keep moving.

Hannibal obeyed, sprinting for the museum entrance. Alejandra followed close behind him and all three dove into the foyer, only to be confronted by an angry ghoul with a laser rifle.

"On your feet, smoothskin!" the female ordered, gesturing with her rifle.

"Please!" Hannibal begged. "Help us!"

"I know!" the ghoul said, "Get back there. Some Brotherhood soldiers are already inside!"

Hannibal gave her a grateful look. A mighty crack echoed across the Mall, making them all peek out the door. Several behemoths were hard at work, hammering away at the base of the Washington monument. Even as they watched, the cyclopean monument shuddered, and slowly began to sag, the base crumbling. Then it fell with a horrendous crash,disintegrating into a tangled mass of concrete, steel and plaster. The impact shook the ground around it, casuing Hannibal to momentarily lose his balance. The behemoths roared in triumph, standing firm as the tide of supermutants swarmed and swirled around them.

"Get moving!" the female hissed, shutting the door. "They'll be coming for us soon enough.

She lead Hannibal across the floor of the museum, past the fallen skeleton of some terrifying prehistoric creature. They were met at the gate by two more ghouls and, to Hannibal's dismay, another supermutant, though this one seemed far less violent than the savages outside.

"I think that's all the humans left!" the female ghoul reported.

"Are we sure we want this?" one of the male ghouls asked. He was wearing a faded grey jumpsuit, and Hannibal recognized him as Winthrop. He had traded with the new Temple on a fairly regular basis. "I mean… the Muties aren't after us."

"Yet." said the third ghoul, who was wearing a labcoat. "Believe me, we're more human than mutant. I doubt they'd understand the difference once the humans are gone."

"They might, Doc." Winthrop argued. "If we harbor humans, they'll come after us for sure."

"Look, I've lost two of my closest friends today!" Hannibal said. "Please don't throw us out, I beg you!"

"The mutants are going to come for us regardless." The doctor replied, ignoring him. "We need as many able hands as possible! What does it matter whether they're human or not?"

They were interrupted by a sudden pounding on the museum's outer doors. Silence smothered the entire scene.

"I do not think that will be enough." The friendly mutant said, hoisting a sledgehammer. "Is there another way out of underworld?"

"At the back of my lab there's something." The doctor said thoughtfully, "Hallways… but I've never explored it."

"Take the humans, and evacuate." The mutant ordered, stepping forward. "Go. Now. I will hold them as best I can."

"Thank you Fawkes!" Winthrop said.

"Go!" The mutant roared. Hannibal found himself pulled through the door, and into the Ghoul's city.

* * *

><p>Fawkes stood at the entrance to underworld, pacing back and forth on the raised platform in front of the doors. He could feel the fine layer of dirt which covered the floor of the museum entrance. It was soft between his toes, comforting. The roof of the enormous chamber vaulted high over his head, and the entire room was lit with the flickering orange glow of the torches and lit barrels. He stared past the fallen skeleton and the mammoth statue, his steady gaze focused on the small doorway between the his domed chamber and the lobby.<p>

A distant booming crash caused him to pause in mid-stride, watching the opening carefully. Another rumble shook the building and there was the sound of falling debris. A thick cloud of dust billowed through the opening, obscuring his view, but he could hear the growls and shouts of the mutant army beyond.

A shadow appeared, striding calmly through the smoke. It resolved into a single mutant. Fawkes had seen a great many mutants of a great many varieties over his years outside the vault. None of them possessed the dark hues of grey, blue, and green which colored this mutant. None of their eyes possessed that intelligence. None of them moved with the calm, steady purposeful stride.

He was smaller than the other mutants, but no less imposing. The musculature of most mutants, including Fawkes, was bulky and unwieldy, yet this mutant's physique was streamlined, toned with age and use. His body was covered by thick plate armour, and an enormous black sword was slung across his back.

The mutant halted ten heavy paces from the steps, and with a curious expression, he surveyed Fawkes. "I seek humans."

"There are none here." Fawkes replied. "Leave now."

"What is your name, my brother? Why are you not attacking?"

The mutant's voice was smooth; as controlled as his steady movements. Fawkes envied him that ability.

"I am not your brother."

The mutant's expression grew more confused. "We are all brothers. We have all been reborn. Baptized in the green glow."

"It doesn't matter where we came from." Fawkes responded. "Our actions define us, and you want to slaughter innocents."

"Innocents…?"

"The ghouls and humans behind these doors."

The mutant looked shocked and horrified. "You stand with _them_?"

"I do."

"What is your name?"

"Fawkes."

"Mine is Brutus." The mutant told him. "I have no wish to harm you, Brother. But I will see the humans, and _anyone_ protecting them, dead."

"You will not pass while I draw breath." Fawkes replied evenly. "These humans have done nothing to you."

"Humans have done everything to us!" the mutant named Brutus snarled. "You would betray your own species?"

"The worst hardships I've ever endured, I endured at the hands of my own kind." Fawkes countered. "These ghouls and humans have been kind in comparison."

"Kindness?" Brutus spat. "I know much of human 'kindness'! Human kindness resulted in the death of our Master, and the slaughter of thousands of mutants."

"The first human I ever met chose not to kill me. He chose to trust me, confide in me, and set me free. He has treated me with nothing but kindness and dignity."

"Who was this human?"

"The Lone Wanderer."

Brutus' eyes narrowed. "You'd side with a Wanderer? They are the worst of their kind."

"Wrong." Fawkes barked, his denial echoing throughout the chamber. "He is the best of their kind, and you, the worst of ours." He palmed the head of his hammer, feeling its weight. "And if I die on these steps today, then I die knowing I've repaid my debt to him, and defended his people from you."

"You wish to die, traitor?" the king demanded, stepping forward and drawing his sword. "Then I will oblige!"

Brutus stabbed forward with his sword, aiming for the upper abdomen. Fawkes dodged sideways, lightly batting away the thrust. He shuffled forward and rammed the head of his hammer into Brutus' face, knocking the mutant king backwards. Fawkes followed through with an underhanded swing. It caught Brutus in the sternum, knocking him backwards, and sending him sliding across the smooth museum floor. He left long streaks in the thick layer of dust, marking his trail.

Fawkes turned and marched back to the Underworld entrance. He retook his protective stance, and watched as the mutant king tried to rise. It took a few attempts, and when Brutus finally made it to his feet, he was glaring at Fawkes with newfound respect. A small amount of blood was trickling from the corner of Brutus' mouth, and he wiped it away.

"Yield." Brutus ordered.

"No."

The mutant king moved forward again, this time much more cautiously. He used the superior length of his blade to swipe and thrust at Fawkes with precise strikes, but each blow was calmly deflected. The length of his weapon was offset by Fawkes' superior height, and calm determination. Fawkes could tell that his opponent was getting increasingly frustrated; every second the two of them sparred was another second the fugitives had to flee Underworld.

Behind Brutus, more mutants began to file in, watching the fight unfold. There were more than Fawkes could count, and he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that even if he managed to kill their leader, he would not survive the lead and energy storm of retribution.

The king whipped the tip of his blade around in a fast arc designed to slit Fawkes' throat, forcing the mutant to block with his hammer. As the blade bounced off, the king stepped around to the opposite side and rammed the hilt of his blade into Fawkes' jaw, knocking the mutant backwards. He acted immediately and rammed the blade at his opponent's head.

Fawkes dodged at the last second and felt the rough blade scratch his cheek as its tip skittered across the marble floor. He kicked out, hitting Brutus in the stomach and knocking the king backwards. He followed through, picking up his hammer and raining blow after blow on the smaller, armoured opponent. It was all Brutus could do to keep his skull from getting smashed in. He kept his enormous sword up, gripping it by the hilt and the length, the flat of his blade blocking blow after furious blow until it began to buckle and bend under the repeated stress.

Brutus tilted his sword, suddenly removing his hand from the blade and causing Fawkes' powerful blow to slide down the length of it. As his opponent's hammer fell away, the king spun around, gripping the hilt in reverse, tucking the blade beneath his armpit, and plunging it into the green mutant's midriff.

The hammer clattered to the floor. Brutus turned and watched as Fawkes stared down at the fresh blood trickling down the king's bent blade. The traitor's gaze traveled up Brutus' arm, and Fawkes met his eyes with calm acceptance, and determination.

"I am sorry, brother," Brutus began, the blade squelching as it slid further in. The amount of blood pouring from the grievous wound seemed to double. "But you are a traitor to our cause, and we-"

He didn't get to finish his sentence. To his amazement, the mutant named Fawkes tackled him, ignoring the injury completely, and Brutus found his face being repeatedly and ruthlessly smashed into the unyielding marble steps. Fawkes let out a roar of unrelenting rage, a lament that he couldn't cause enough pain. It was cut short as an overlord tore the mutant away, leaving Brutus gasping for air and spitting blood.

The line of overlords slowly advanced on Fawkes, who fought unsteadily to his feet. He winced, pulled Brutus' blade out, and held it in front of him, preparing to meet the first attack. One aggressive mutant bellowed and threw a punch at him. He lopped the offender's arm off at the elbow, and followed through with a thrust into the mutant's throat, killing it. He pulled the blade out and shuffled back in time to meet a second strike, the overlord assaulting him with an enormous sledgehammer in much the same manner he had used on Brutus. He blocked, and slid the blade down the length of the hammer's grip, severing the mutant's fingers. As the beast howled in pain he chopped it off at the knees and planted Brutus' sword in its back, his fresh blood being washed away with the mutant's own ichor.

However, he was slowing down, he knew. The wound was taking its toll, and every movement was becoming more difficult.

A supermutant master stepped forward, making to tackled him. Fawkes dodged clumsily and scored a deep gash across the mutant's abdomen. It landed on the ground and he wasted no time in cutting its head off, the enormous blade kicking up sparks as it hit the floor.

Fawkes heard a roar behind him, and was knocked to the floor, the wind blasted from his lungs. Brutus' sword skittered away and buried itself in a pile of detritus, lying in one of the museums shadowed corners. Rough hands, enormous even by Fawkes' standards, gripped him by the back of his neck and dragged him to his knees. He could make out the distinct bulk of another overlord as it gripped his shoulders, keeping him down despite his struggles.

His enemies gathered around him and began to land heavy blows on his head and shoulders, forcing him on all fours, then eventually to his stomach, their ferocity and bloodlust unmatched. Eventually he stopped feeling the pain, and as his vision began to fade, Fawkes could see Brutus, their king, seated upon the steps, watching the proceedings with a regretful expression. The king gently removed his helmet and ran his palm across his bare head. Behind him, his army streamed into the ghoul city unopposed, and Fawkes hoped that the innocents had managed to escape. Cries of terror and gunfire showed him otherwise, and his last sight before an overlord's heel crushed him was of the museum's ceiling being ripped apart by an enormous behemoth.

* * *

><p>Glade shifted slightly, trying to make himself comfortable on the oddly-shaped rock. For the fourth time in as many minutes, he looked up at Rothchild. The Scribe was locked in quiet conversation with Megaton's Sheriff. Glade was part of the ragged band of twenty or so Brotherhood soldiers who were gathered around the city's gate. They were armed with a strange collection of weaponry including hunting rifles and 10mm pistols, scavenged from dead Muties. The luckier ones had picked up weapons from the armoured savior's weapons cache, but for the most part, they'd been entirely set on the singular goal of making out of the D.C. ruins alive. Not a single soldier had power armour, and all semblance of rank and order seemed to have faded, leaving a group of tired, defeated human beings in place of the armoured knights.<p>

"What the hell are the talking about?" Kodiak asked, taking a seat beside him. The Paladin stretched out on the gritty sand, resting his hunting rifle on his chest.

"I don't know." Glade shrugged. "Don't much care. I just want to…" he died away into silence. He didn't have an answer, nor a goal. The shock of their sudden defeat had left him reeling. A large part of him was still not convinced the citadel had fallen. Every time he replayed the sequence of events in his head, he felt as if he were watching a dream, or a pre-war movie. Some nightmarish fantasy rather than reality. But then he'd open his eyes and see the pitiful remnants gathered around him, and realize again and again that it had all really happened. He was there; tired, hopelessly depressed, and utterly directionless.

The Brotherhood in the capital wasteland was over. That much was certain to all the survivors. And if it hadn't been for their mysterious benefactor, the mutant triumph would have been complete. Suddenly the wasteland which for so long had been theirs to protect and uphold, was completely beyond their control and understanding.

"Who do you think he was?" Kodiak asked.

"Who?"

"The Armoured Man."

"I don't know." Glade said, his voice an acoustic tableau of indifference. "I just hope he has better luck than we did."

"Was it the Wanderer?"

"No." That much, glade was absolutely sure of. He'd been around the Lone Wanderer for four years, and as much as the man was a mystery, a few facts about his methods had remained constant; the Wanderer used a minimalistic approach to combat. He always chose whichever method got the job done most efficiently with the least amount of waste, and the least chance of failure. From what little Sarah had shared about her time in the Pitt, he used stealth, distractions, silence and darkness, and Glade knew his signature: three rounds forming a neat triangle in the heads of every single one of his victims. Strict trigger discipline.

The Armoured Man, as impressive and effective as his display had been, had merely overpowered his opponents, cutting them down with a wall of lead. A different method entirely. Besides, the Lone Wanderer did not use Power Armour. And he certainly wasn't that enormous.

"Holy shit…" Kodiak sat up suddenly, staring in shock at the top of the nearest dune. Glade followed his gaze, and met the angry, wild eyes of Sarah Lyons.

She looked half dead; thin as a rail, and her skin, so pale it was almost alabaster, seemed to glow slightly, reflecting the moonlight. Her eyes were half-crazed, and the scar on the side of her head seemed to glow slightly brighter than anywhere else, bringing out that horrible feral side of her that he had seen when she'd first arrived from Point Lookout.

He found his gaze couldn't linger on her eyes and face too long, though. Whenever it did, he got a strange ringing in his ears, like the toll of buoy bells. A combat knife was gripped so tightly in her right hand that her knuckles had turned white, and in her left was a vaguely spherical object, brown and leathery.

"What the _hell_?" Kodiak muttered to himself.

As the woman approached, the object's exact nature became clear. It was the head of a feral ghoul, detached from the body. A few strands of flesh were still dangling, along with a small amount of spine.

The survivors grew quiet as she limped down the hill, their eyes following her every move. Whispers chased her, and when they looked upon her, Glade noticed the fear, distrust, and accusations in their eyes. yet she held her head high, and kept her gaze steady. The woman came to a halt in front of them, as if in a trance.

"…Sarah?" glade asked.

She blinked myopically and glanced down at the ghoul's head, which was attracting the attentions of her disheartened comrades. She held the head up in a Shakespearian pose, examining it in the blue moonlight. Then she lowered it, disinterested.

"Sewers." She murmured, trudging past them towards Rothchild, who had also stopped to watch. "Ghoul attacked me. Things shouldn't attack me… think they'd all just _fucking learn_… it's not healthy for them…"

Glade rose to his feet and followed her, shouldering his assault rifle. She came to a halt four paces from the scribe, her feverish gaze oscillating between the old scribe and Lucas Simms, both of whom were looking shocked and more than a little wary.

She addressed Rothchild first. "My father?"

His expression should have told her everything she needed to know, but to Glade's surprise, she didn't seem to react at all. Instead she turned to Simms. "The Brotherhood is staying in Megaton to rearm and get supplied."

"Yes, we were just discussing it." Rothchild told her calmly.

"NO!" she threw the ghoul's head down. It bounced off a small rock and rolled into the night. "You don't discuss it! You _do _it! We don't have time to discuss! We're out of time!" Her voice was growing more frantic by the second, and Glade reached out a hand to steady her.

The moment the tips of his fingers touched her shoulder, she spun around. He found himself flat on the dirt with her combat boot on his neck. Not taking the pressure off, she bent down and glared at him with those crazed eyes. "Get your division fallen in, Star Paladin!"

She stood and took a step back to glare at the crowd of sitting soldiers. She began to move from knight to knight, kicking each of them as hard as she could, rousing them out of their stupor. "Get up! Get up! Rise and shine! _Get the fuck up_!"

Her boot landed in the teeth of one of the unfortunate knights, but she didn't lay off the poor woman, instead driving closer with the knife held threateningly in front of her. "Get up or I swear by Ug-Qualtoth's frilly polka-dot hat, _I will slice you to pieces_!"

The poor knight scrambled to her feet, terrified. Her comrades were following her example, dusting themselves off and picking up their weapons.

"I want you fallen in _right here_!" Sarah barked, gesturing with her knife. The knights obeyed, standing to attention and watching her fearfully.

"Eyes front!" the Star-Paladin continued, stomping angrily down the line. She halted in the center. "You are Brotherhood soldiers! Squad right turn!"

As one, the division spun ninety degrees and faced Megaton's entrance. The gates whined and clicked, slowly opening to reveal the interior of the post-apocalyptic city.

"Squad, quick march! Double time!" Sarah hollered. The startled knights obeyed, and she followed, using a manically determined stride to keep pace with them. Kodiak helped Glade to his feet, and the two of them fell in behind her, with a stunned Rothchild and bemused Simms bringing up the rear.

* * *

><p><strong>Updated Pro Posterus, too. Busy wrestling with The Fourth Option, but neither are as important as this one. Be careful when asking for companion cameos. But I hope you enjoyed. :) <strong>

**Keep on Chooglin'**

**-CC out.**


	12. Chapter 12

Mutatis Mutandis 12

Glade ran his hands through his hair again and stared down at the crude wasteland map. It was outdated, but the only thing the Sheriff had been able to dig up. One corner was being held down by a lantern, the other by a small radio. Rothchild and another scribe were updating the sheet as fast as they possibly could, but this was humiliating. Having to use paper and pencil approximations instead of the high-tech electronic maps in the citadel. Having no weapons, and no power armour. Having to stay as barely welcome guests in the central commons of an unfamiliar city. The Brotherhood hadn't lost, they'd been curb-stomped, and it was humiliating. Not to mention terrifying. How was the wasteland supposed to fight back if the mutants could do that to the _Brotherhood_ in a matter of hours?

The only notable sound was the constant rhythmic impact of a combat knife hitting a palm. Sarah was sitting on a bunk in the darkest corner of the room, tossing her knife up and catching it. She was so wrapped in the shadows that he could only see the glint of her eyes, and the light reflecting off the knife blade.

The rest of the survivors had gathered in various bunks around the inside of the Commons. Some were sleeping, but most were staring into space, still dazed. Glade reached over to the radio and tried the dial again. The tinny speakers produced nothing but a constant, faint hiss.

"It's no use." Rothchild said from across the table. "GNR went silent when the citadel was attacked. Apparently the last broadcast ended in gunfire."

"So much for our GNR garrison…" Kodiak muttered. "What about the Outcasts?"

"Fort independence is just southwest!" Glade said, hope flaring. "maybe we can

"And what chance will_ they_ have?" Rothchild asked. "We couldn't hold the mutants off from the Citadel. All they have there is a wire fence."

"Look, we need to organize. We need a plan." Glade said.

"Wonderful idea. Do you have one?" Rothchild replied.

"Guerilla warfare." Glade and Rothchild both turned as Sarah slid off the bed and stepped into the light. She continued. "Jason was right. We travel slow, and fight heavy. This is a different kind of war. We hit them as hard as we can, whenever we can, wherever we can, and we disappear before they can strike back."

"You may be sure of succeeding in your attack if you only attack places which are undefended, and that you may insure the safety of your defense if you only hold positions which cannot be attacked" Glade replied, remembering a quote that had sunk to the back of his mind in recent months.

Kodiak let out a short laugh. "We _really _should have paid more attention to him, huh Glade?"

"To whom, exactly?" Rothchild asked carefully, confronting them.

"Leo. The Wanderer's ally." Glade said. "We were stuck in a train tunnel with him for a couple weeks."

"He practically_ told_ us this was going to happen." Kodiak murmured, his eyes unfocussed. "God…damn it!"

"Guerilla warfare." Sarah told them, the grip on her knife tightening and loosening rhythmically. "We cannot take them head-on."

"I'm not even sure we can take them guerilla style either." Kodiak said.

Rothchild nodded. "There are only two-dozen of us, after all, Sarah."

Glade met her eyes and saw the half-feral animal staring back. He said, "I do think we need time to regroup, Sarah. Elder Lyons wouldn't have wante-"

"My father is dead, Glade!"

"Missing in action." Glade corrected gently, for the sake of the listening troops.

Sarah exploded, a hurricane of unbound fury. "_Every single body in that pile is MIA! _I want _vengeance_!"

Rothchild sighed. "What can we do alone? Even if we manage to pull off successful raids, we'd still be stuck in a deadlock. They're going to win through attrition. Even if we pull our reinforcements at Adams' Airforce Base, That's under fifty troops. Not even enough to bruise. There aren't enough of us left."

Sarah hesitated, opening and closing her mouth furiously. At last she came out with a retort: "Jason's left."

"No one's heard from him since GNR went down." Kodiak supplied regretfully.

"That means nothing!" Sarah told them confidently. "He's alive."

"How do you know?"

"He's invincible." She replied in an offhand tone. The Brotherhood remnants stared.

"…Sarah…" Rothchild began.

"He is!" she insisted. "I've seen it! He can survive getting blown up by mini-nukes! He did it twice during our trip to the Pitt!" She looked around the room, and found no one who was willing to meet her gaze. Everyone was suddenly more interested in the room's sparse decorations. She looked back at the three eldest. "Glade?"

He shook his head. "Sarah… I'm sure it looks that way, and I know the two of you are involved, but-"

"That's not even… It's got nothing to do with this!"

"You said you had died." Kodiak added gently.

"How many times has he done the impossible for us, huh?" she demanded, angered by the lack of support. "He's going to come back! He's going to give us his upgrades! He's going to teach us how he fights! Then we're going to drive those muties all the way back into the fucking_ ocean_!" she declared. "You'll see!"

She stomped out, leaving only pregnant silence, and the static of the radio.

* * *

><p>Jason knocked three times on the door to the rickety post-war shed. It opened a crack as the small building's only occupant checked to see her visitor. Then she threw the door wide open. The elderly woman hobbled out, beaming at Jason. "My dear child! It's so good to see you again!"<p>

He smiled back and gestured at the DJ. "Hello Agatha, this is Three Dog. Three Dog, Agatha."

"A pleasure, I'm sure." She extended a hand, which the DJ took with the usual flamboyance.

"And you, Ma'am!"

"Oh," She put her other hand on her chest. "My, what a voice you have!"

"He does." Jason affirmed, turning to Three Dog. "Go inside, familiarize yourself with her equipment. Change it to broadcast GNR's signal. Start broadcasting immediately. Tell everyone you're alive."

Three Dog cast a doubtful glance up at the small ramshackle radio tower. "You sure it can reach across the wastes?"

Jason nodded, and pushed the DJ through the door.

Agatha frowned. "Excuse me, but a polite young man doesn't just invite his guests into another person's home."

"I'm polite when I can afford to be." Jason replied shortly. "The Supermutants are overrunning this wasteland. People need to hear Three Dog's voice. It'll give them hope."

"Well that's very respectable goal, young man," the frail old woman reprimanded indignantly, "But my husband built this station _specif_-"

"I don't care. It's Three Dog's now." Jason interrupted. "End of story. I need his voice on the air. Are you going to be a problem?"

Agatha looked him up and down, her gaze settling on his assault rifle. He hadn't made any threatening movements with it, but he didn't have to. She sighed. "It had been rather lonely out here. I haven't had any visits from Crow, Doc Hoff, or Lucky Harith for two weeks now…"

"That's because they're probably all dead." Jason replied, ignoring the way the woman seemed to shrink at his words. "The GNR signal must fly. Three Dog's voice must be heard. This is not a negotiation. He's taking over."

Agatha looked as though she were about to deliver a retort, but then she took a closer look at his duster. He had sustained several more injuries in their escape. His clothing was strewn with blood and bullet holes. The Supermutants had cast their net tightly, and while Jason had encountered worse fights, and worse injuries, their planning and forethought had him very worried. He had to check other areas. Big Town, Megaton, The Citadel, which was probably the Mutants' first target after GNR… not to mention Rivet City and Project Purity.

It sickened him, but he knew deep down that if Agatha delayed him any longer, he _would _remove her from the equation. He couldn't afford delays. Sarah's recovery alone had already cost the wasteland too much.

Thankfully, it never came that close.

"Looks simple enough." Three Dog said, walking out. "And impressive. How did you manage to get it to reach all corners of the wasteland?"

"My husband designed it." Agatha explained defiantly.

"Guy had some talent. Gotta say, I'm going to miss having my albums."

"I can play the violin."

"No offense, but I've heard your radio station." Three Dog replied, giving the woman a disarming smile. "You play anything cheerful?"

"This is _classical _music, young man!" she told him, her hands on her hips.

"And it lacks pizzazz."

Jason said. "If I have time, I will see what I can find. But I have to go now. I'll try to keep you supplied."

"Yeah." Three Dog looked around the hidden little clearing. "We'll be fine. Go stop the bad guys. Tell me when this nightmare's over."

* * *

><p>A burst of cool air forced Sarah to wake up. The sweat made her recon armour stick to her back uncomfortably. She heard Dogmeat's slight whine as they both came awake. As her senses began to taste the atmosphere, they noted a third presence in the room. She sat up, tearing herself off of Jason's wooden table. The Lone Wanderer shut his door quietly. As it closed, Sarah could make out the red dusk light. She'd been asleep for several hours.<p>

She rubbed her eyes. "What time is it?"

"Six."

"Is Three Dog alive?"

He nodded. "He'll be broadcasting any time now."

"Where did you put him?"

"Can't say." Jason told her quietly. "Too important."

She smiled slightly, slowly rubbing her palms together, her elbows on the table. She was still caught in the haze between sleep and wakefulness. They both waited in awkward silence while she recovered.

"Simms has scouts. If they come this way, we'll have some warning. But they seem to be staying in the city limits."

"How did the Citadel fall?" he asked.

"Behemoths. Two dozen."

"And the upgrades?"

"Alien or not, an energy weapon is just an energy weapon." She looked back down at the table. "Didn't make us invincible. Just bought a few of us enough time to get to the laboratory. We got cornered down there. Then they broke in through the roof…"

"How did you survive?"

"Mistaken for dead. Woke up on a pile of bodies." She rubbed her face. "I think I saw Gallows."

Jason frowned. "Where?"

"A dream. Maybe." Sarah shrugged. "I'd rather not think about it, to be honest."

"Have you heard from anyone else?"

She shook her head again.

After a moment, he said, "They're burning the bodies. I could smell the smoke from the Super Duper Mart. I didn't see a mutant beyond the city border. They're laying low. For now."

Sarah felt a stone settle in her gut. She had resolved not to think about her father, but a few defiant memories simply refused to be suppressed. Surprisingly, it wasn't her recent memories which surfaced, but the older ones. She was suddenly halfway across the states, sitting on his knee and looking through a Grognak comic book; too young for novels without pictures.

She felt tears rise, and forced them down. "My father is dead."

The Wanderer, that clockwork angel which defined him, seemed to drain away leaving him staring at her with numb shock.

"God… Sarah, I…" he shrugged helplessly. Sensing his distress, Dogmeat padded over and nuzzled his hand.

She managed to keep herself together just long enough to tell him. "I couldn't find him. I didn't even get to say goodbye to him. I should have said goodbye to him!"

Jason set down his assault rifle, leaning it awkwardly against the stairs. He quickly made his way around the edge of the table, shedding his duster in the process. Behind him, the rifle clattered to the floor. Both of them ignored it.

He pulled her to him and hugged her quietly, feeling her tears soak his shoulder. He remembered the pain, grief, and impotent rage, watching James die of radiation poisoning. The helpless anger gripped him again; knowing it was happening and not being able to do anything about it. He had replayed that day a thousand times in his head. If he'd fixed the valve first, or simply taken a walk… he would have been available. Somehow the universe had conspired to put him in a position where he could do nothing but watch..

"I want vengeance, Jason." She said, her voice muffled.

He let out a long breath and let her go so he could untie his red bandana. He laid it on the table beside her elbow and gave her a sympathetic look. Sarah's cheeks were glistening with tears, and her eyes were red and swollen, but she was angry and determined. As determined as he had ever seen her.

He sat back, watching her carefully.

"You're going to help me." She told him.

"Sarah…"

"_Please!_"

"I need to take care of the wasteland first. Megaton is vulnerable right now." Jason tried to explain. "Once I've-"

Sarah's fist slammed down on the table, making him flinch. Her other hand had traveled up to the side of her head, feeling the rough surface of the ugly white scar. Jason wondered when she'd developed that particular nervous tick. She shook her head. "_Eventually _isn't good enough! Not anymore! Not for this! It's too much… too much _shit_ for one person, Jason!" her elbows hit the table and she held her head in her palms. "How did you come out so well?"

"I didn't." He replied quietly. "You fixed me, remember?"

She laughed darkly, the noise making Dogmeat's ears perk. "Well that was a mistake."

"Not from where I'm standing."

"Yeah, well, you're standing on the grave of the Brotherhood of Steel, aren't you?" she snapped. "If you didn't give a shit about me, you would have been out in the ruins stopping this."

"If I didn't give a shit about you, you'd be dead."

"Yeah…" she murmured. "Because Sarah Lyons would have done so much good against this…" She looked up at him, a searching look in her eyes. "What did you do, when you realized that being Jason Howlett wasn't going to be enough…?"

Jason shrugged. "Embraced the other side. Wished I hadn't. It's not a happy life, Sarah."

"Happiness is the least useful thing I have, Jason."

He winced; he'd said something very similar to Leo during one of their many discussions. The mutant had been one of the few people capable of understanding his plight. Possibly his only confidant before Sarah had entered the picture. He wondered where the mutant was, and whether or not he was alright. "That doesn't mean going the other way is any better. Sarah I've been there. Stay with the Brotherhood."

"Or I could turn into a female you." She giggled again, a forlorn sound. "I'm well on my way already."

Jason grimaced. He gently pulled her in until her head was resting in the crook of his neck. He said, "You don't want that."

"If it gets me what I want…" she murmured, her breath hot against his neck.

"Sleep on it, at least. Please?" he asked. "I don't like this, but If you still feel the same way in the morning, I'll help you."

"Promise?" her voice was wavering, overcome with exhaustion.

"Promise." He said.

* * *

><p>The bone-white broken remains of the Washington Monument lay strewn across the length of the Mall. Most of it had landed in the Reflecting Pool which lay before the Lincoln Memorial. It was a pleasant sight. Every fallen human symbol brought the world one step closer to utopia.<p>

A mutant approached him. "Sir."

"Hmm?"

"Der Brudderhood's 'scaped." The mutant told him uneasily. "Dey got away."

Brutus glared across the still waters of the pool. "How? The Lone Wanderer's escape was understandable for he is a Wanderer, and above the rest. But twenty unarmed, unarmoured humans?"

"Dey was rescued, sir." The supermutant held up a handful of golden 5.56 shells.

Brutus took them very carefully, and examined them in the bright sunlight, his face twisting in rage. His roar built up into a mighty crescendo and he threw the shells into the pool.

"It's only twenty humans, sir." The mutant said, taken aback by his master's sudden anger.

"Twenty _and one more_!"

"It der Wanderer, sir?"

"Worse." Brutus began to pace back and forth frantically. He turned to his underling. "We cannot afford to take volunteers anymore. Ascending should be a choice, but it's not one we can afford to grant our captives. Take all our female humans and give them the cure. Then present them to Alpha. We will need the strength of the FEV II generation. Do it now!"

But his underling remained still. "Dere's more, sir."

Brutus snapped around furiously. "What else?"

"Sir, der Rivet City is not givin' up."

"So get inside and slaughter them!" Brutus ordered distractedly.

"Da hallways're too small, sir. We can't fit. Dey got weapons an' food, an' armour. We'll lose a lot of Brothers."

Brutus frowned, his mind shifting to consider the problem before him. He rubbed his chin and turned to his underling. "Rivet City sits on the shore of the Potomac river."

"I dink so, sir. Dun much know, though."

Brutus smiled. "Before the war started, the Potomac was a prime place for farming and fishing oysters. Have your mutants gather as many as you can."

"Oysters?"

"Sea shells." Brutus corrected, trying to simplify things, as he always had to. "You will collect sea shells from the riverbeds. As many as you can."

His subordinate gave him a strange look. Brutus couldn't blame the poor mutant, so he explained. "When you burn oyster shells, you get a substance called Lime. Do you know what Lime is?"

"Der tastes good."

"Not _limes_, you-" Brutus shut his eyes and took a deep breath. "Lime. An inorganic material, mostly calcium oxide. Also one of the oldest chemical weapons in existence. It blinds humans, and burns them from the inside if they breath it. And when combined with water, it creates enough heat to burn up any flammable substance it encounters.

"Crush the shells to powder, and burn it. Have the behemoths work the billows. You will open Rivet City's doors. You will strip the hull away, and you will fill every cubic inch of that rat's nest with the appropriate poison.

"When they are blind and helpless, you will take captives. We will inject the females with the FEV II virus, and take them to Vault 87 for Alpha to do with as he pleases. Then we will have no more need of humans at all, and you may kill them as you please."

* * *

><p><strong>Sooo, I've been running silent for a couple weeks, and there's a reason: I got a job. Finally. A full-time gig. 8-5.<strong>

**Still plan to write on the weekends, but I'm spending 8 hours a day doing heavy physical activity and I'm pretty much exhausted when I get home. This basically cuts writing time down to weekends, and means I'll be putting out chapters at a far slower rate. I still intend to keep writing though. I've resolved to write at least 300-500 words a night, I'll see if I can't send them to Krow Blood to prove I've done them. He can keep me on the straight and narrow.**

**A part of the problem is that it's difficult to start new chapters and scenes. A completely blank page is the hardest thing to overcome. I'm sitting just on the wrong side of the Writer's Block line, and I'm a little afraid that in combination with the new job, it might end me. I don't plan to let it, though. **

**I know Three Dog has a wife, but I don't even care. I wish I had a better explanation for why she's not mentioned here, but there is not a more honest one. I'm aware this isn't really a valid reason, but IMHO Margaret is an excuse for Bethesda to keep playing us those awesome tunes, even if we kill Three Dog. And she's not going to figure into this story. I'm sorry if I disappointed anyone. I'm not actually sure anyone else cares either. No one mentioned her so far, so I'm going to assume not.**

**I know Brutus' plans are horrific. But he's a bad guy. They're supposed to be. If you feel offended or upset by it, I apologize. But this story is rate 'M' for a reason.**


	13. Chapter 13

Mutatis Mutandis 13

Sarah's eyes snapped open, and for a moment, and felt panic set in as she took in her unfamiliar surroundings. It subsided as quickly as it had arisen. She was in Jason's bedroom. He'd lent it to her after the previous night's outburst. They hadn't slept together. Not that either of them had been in the mood, but a part of her was wondering if it would ever happen at all. She herself was fully clothed, and smelling far worse than usual. As for Jason… she wasn't even sure he had actually gotten any sleep at all. She didn't remember him ever joining her.

She sat up and shook out her frazzled hair as best she could, then put her combat boots back on and stepped out of the bedroom. Jason was one floor below, staring at a giant map of the wasteland. His map. The master copy, Sarah could only assume. He had marked every location he'd ever visited on it, and had an entire folder of notes to accompany. Things he'd done while he was at each location. Problems solved, and potential assets found. He had given a copy of the file to the Brotherhood recently, as part of their new alliance. Fat lot of good that move had done them. She hoped the Muties didn't know how to read.

"What time is it?"

"Four thirty."

"Are you planning our counter attack?" she asked, descending the stairs. Dogmeat was dozing lazily beside the table.

"Not right now." the Wanderer answered. "First We need to find a place to house the entire settlement of Megaton. If they stay, they'll be slaughtered."

Cold silence settled between them.

"You promised." She pointed out, staring at his hunched back.

"How long do you think the two of us will last?" he replied absently. "We need an army. That means locking down assets. Protect civilians so we can bring them back into the fight as we need them."

"And after we've dealt with them, _then _we counter-attack?"

He didn't answer. She sighed in exasperation and joined him at the table, leaning over his map. "What do you have so far?"

His finger traced his options. "The nearest viable possibility is Meresti. But Vance doesn't have the supplies for that many people. He could house Arefu, and Big Town_ maybe_. But no more."

The questing finger drew southwest. "Ten Penny Tower? No. Any shelter which gives the Behemoths room to move is doomed."

"Are you sure the refugees could even make it that far without the Mutants catching up?" she asked, examining the distance. She couldn't help but notice the red X marks he'd drawn over the Citadel and GNR. She said, "If the muties find them in the middle of the wasteland, it would be a complete slaughter."

The Wanderer nodded. "Evergreen mills, perhaps? No. Defensible, certainly. But again, too far away. Perhaps the residents of Tenpenny Tower could be moved there. That or into Warrington Station. But they're doomed. The residents won't listen, and they have a weapons stockpile and resources we'll need. I may have to take it by force."

"How about you take the weapons from dead muties instead?" she suggested sourly.

"Already have. Stockpiled enough to arm Canterbury Commons. Arefu. Rivet City. Megaton. What do you think I've been doing with them all these years?"

"That's not what I meant!"

He frowned slightly, pouring over the map. "I wonder where the mutants have gotten all of their weapons from. They always seem to have an endless supply. From nowhere inside the wasteland. I've checked it all. I'll have to eliminate their source if this turns into a long war."

"_Jason!_" Sarah snapped, unable to stand his clockwork reaper anymore. On a better day, she'd have had more patience, but the last twenty-four hours had pushed her to the breaking point, and she was fresh out of patience. She thumped the table, making Dogmeat's ears perk up. "I need help. I want to counter attack!"

"Wasteland first, Sarah. Helping you instead of dealing with this problem is what cost us." he said. "If I'd spent the three weeks hunting Brutus, I could have killed him and stopped this. I knew it was coming, but I helped you instead. That's why the Citadel was lost. You really think we can afford it _now_? We need to preserve ourselves if we're going to have any chance for the future."

"Why do you even care about _moving_ these people?" she snarled, a familiar anger overcoming her. "Do you honestly think anyone in this town is going to want to leave their homes? We lock this place down. fortify it. Use it as a forward command post and drive the mutants back… into… D.C.…" she died away into furious silence.

Jason was gazing at her blankly, his mouth hanging open. He wasn't listening to her anymore, she had realized. At least not past her first sentence. She watched pain cross his face followed by hurt, anger and… regret? Then he closed up and she found herself staring at the steel wall of the Lone Wanderer.

"_What?_" she asked impatiently. On the floor, Dogmeat growled.

The Lone Wanderer answered her in measured tones. "Only viable option under the circumstances. We're going to open Vault 101."

* * *

><p>Something cold and metallic pressed gently against Rothchild's nose. He murmured quietly, surfacing from the depths of sleep. It pressed a little harder, and his eyes snapped open to reveal a bloodstained duster, the unshaven face of the Lone Wanderer wearing it, and most importantly the tip of his silenced assault rifle. Out of a combination of shock and fear, he froze like a stunned deer.<p>

"Get up." The Wanderer said quietly, lowering his weapon.

Rothchild glanced around the room, and for a moment he wondered if he weren't still asleep, and this was actually some sort of nightmare. The other knights were all still fast asleep.

"Get up quietly." The Wanderer repeated.

Rothchild shifted across the uneven mattress and rose to his feet. "What's this about?"

"We're emptying Megaton. I'm putting them in Vault 101."

Rothchild frowned, but quickly overcame his surprise. He moved a little closer to avoid waking the other brotherhood members. "Okay," he whispered. "Assuming you _can-_"

"I can."

"Alright… how do you intend to get the population to leave?"

"I've already spoken to Simms."

"What do you need from me?"

"Two things. Firstly, If people start questioning how bad things are, you remind them."

Rothchild nodded. The Brotherhood remnant's firsthand experience would certainly be enough to sway anyone sitting on the fence. "And the second thing?"

The Wanderer's steel wall faded for a moment, and Rothchild found himself recognizing James Howlett in the face of his son. Jason looked …burdened, and Rothchild knew immediately that the second point was a personal request.

The boy said, "Whatever happens, take good care of Sarah."

* * *

><p>As Jason crept through the pre-dawn town, he felt a certain satisfaction, and considered his good relationship with Lucas Simms. Simms was probably the closest human to him, aside from Sarah. During the first weeks, Simms had given more help to Jason than any other waster. He'd been the only one to really see Jason Howlett before the Wanderer had overtaken them both. After Burke had been dealt with the first time, he'd given Jason a home, and a friend when both were desperately needed. For four years, the Lone Wanderer with all the resources at his disposal, had been aching for a chance to pay the Sheriff back.<p>

And now he finally had the opportunity to save that which Simms valued most: his city. Megaton. Not the physical buildings, perhaps, but the people certainly.

Convincing Simms that they had to leave Megaton was as simple as waking him up and telling him. the Sheriff had not asked questions. He had not scoffed, or fought, or done any of the things Jason was fully expecting out of the other residents. He had merely nodded grimly, woken up his son, and gotten dressed. Jason could see his duster-clad form through a gap in the railing. Simms was moving along the bottom of the crater, going from building to building, slowly waking the slumbering town.

Jason had the difficult assignment, and as he approached the back door of Moriarty's saloon, he pondered exactly how he was to accomplish it.

The door was incredibly easy to pick. Jason had often wondered why the obnoxious barkeep insisted on keeping it locked. Colin was not in his room, which probably meant he was upstairs, spending a little 'quality time' with Nova. The subtly noises filtering through the thin floor certainly supported the assumption, and Jason smiled, unslinging his railway rifle. The thing wasn't nearly as accurate, or practical as his Infiltrator, but it certainly made a strong first impression during negotiations.

Moriarty's terminal was off. The man possessed what was probably the only working computer in the city. He had files on nearly every Megaton resident, including Jason himself. Though the last the Wanderer had checked, the entry was filled with enough question marks and frustrated guesses to make Jason laugh. He did have Jason's full name, though, which was surprising, but not particularly worrying.

He closed the terminal and moved silently behind the bar. Only Gob was present, half asleep. The Ghoul's head was on the table, a half-full glass loose in his grip. He probably always drank like that whenever Colin disappeared upstairs with Nova. The Ghoul's hopeless infatuation with the town's resident whore was legendary, and in his heart of hearts, Jason felt a fair amount of sympathy. He had once considered ending Moriarty to give Gob a chance, but had reminded himself that an act like that was interfering in the most useless fashion. It made no scientific or social progress for the wasteland as a whole, and would destabilize Megaton with unpredictable results.

He reached out and tapped Gob on the shoulder. The Ghoul murmured unintelligibly and shook him off.

"Gob. Get up."

"Gerroffame."

"Gob!" Jason shook him by both shoulders, forcing him awake. The ghoul spun around angrily and threw a wild punch. God suddenly found himself pressed up against the wall of the bar, with a 10mm pistol against his chin. Jason held the ghoul there for a moment, then let go.

Shocked into sobriety, Gob straightened out his shirt and stood up as well as his state would allow. He rubbed the new bruise on his forehead. "Damn, smoothskin, you need to loosen up a little."

Jason blinked and stared down at his own hands. "No." he said slowly. "I used to be faster."

Upstairs, Nova began to moan. The ghoul grimaced. "The hell are you doing here?" he said in his gravelly voice.

"I'm here to sort out Moriarty. You should take a walk."

Upstairs, the whore moaned again. Gob glanced up, slurring slightly as he made a final request. "Save her at least. Please."

Jason nodded, and the Ghoul scampered away. The Wanderer turned away from the empty bar and made his way up the stairs, listening at each door until he found Moriarty's. He paused and readied his railway rifle, coiling himself up. Then he kicked out, the sole of his boot striking the door just beside the handle. The rusted metal gave way and it swung open, exposing Moriarty's bare bottom, and Nova's spread legs.

Both of the bed's occupants leapt for opposite the corners of the room. As he rolled away, swearing at the top of his lungs, the barkeep pulled a pistol out from under his pillow. A well-aimed railroad spike took it out of his hands before he could bring it to bear. The red-hot spike caromed off the back wall and landed in the mattress, burying itself halfway, and filling the room with the smell of scorched cloth. The pistol bounced off a bedpost and landed near Jason's foot. Moriarty scrambled for it, diving towards Jason, who stepped on his stretched-out hand, and planted the tip of his horrific weapon against the man's neck. All three of them froze, neither the whore, nor the barkeep willing to breath.

Jason addressed Nova first. "Get out."

The redhead obeyed wordlessly, not even bothering to collect her clothes along the way. The patter of her feet, and her irritating whimpers echoed along the upper bannister and disappeared. Jason turned to Colin Moriarty, who was glaring up at him.

"Yer an asshole, Wanderer! Have yeh no respect fer a man's privacy?"

The room echoed as another rail spike was launched into the floor beside his head. Moriarty covered his ears, wincing. Jason stood stock still, waiting for the last echoes to die away.

"None." He replied.

"I shoulda killed yeh after yeh crawled outta tha' vault. I was enjoyin' meself!"

Jason's mouth twitched into a slight frown, and he pressed a little harder, grinding the bartender's hand into the floor. "Do even you know what's happening to the wasteland?"

"Yeah. The muties are causin' a little bit'o trouble. But when are they not?"

"They wiped out the Brotherhood." Jason said. "Even you had to notice all the new guests staying in the commons."

"I noticed that they didn't spend enough caps." Moriarty told him, trying desperately to pry his own hand loose. He gave up, panting slightly, and glared up at Jason. "Was there something yeh wanted, or did yeh just break in here to tell me the Brotherhood's gone?"

Jason released the man and he got to his feet. Moriarty stepped backwards and for the sake of modesty, collected a sheet from the bed. After he was done tying it around his waist, he straightened up and set his pale goatee in order.

"Everyone is going to leave Megaton in the morning." Jason said. "Simms is getting everyone out of bed as we speak. You're going to support him. No questions asked."

Moriarty scoffed. "Yeah? And where are we all goin'?"

"Vault 101."

The barkeep burst out laughing. Jason kept his face completely blank. It was a well-practiced move, and he watched Moriarty go through the familiar motions: the faltering laughter, the hesitation. The confusion, and eventual realization.

"You're serious, aren't you, kid?"

Jason nodded, and the man drew himself up, acting as imposing as he possibly could in the stained bedsheet. "Well you're crazy if you think I'm goin' anywhere near that vault."

"So stay here alone, then. Just so long as you don't get in our way."

"Don't think fer a second I'd just let everyone walk outta here!" the barkeep challenged. "I know everyone's dirty little secrets and they're all payin' me ta keep quiet. This town won't do a thing unless I say so. Simms thinks he runs it. He's wrong. I even know about _you_." He took a step forward. "Jason Howlett. 23 years old. Yeh've got a bit of a god complex. Call yerself the Lone Wanderer. I've heard Three-Dog's stories, and it's all smoke and mirrors. Yeh've been around a little, but yer just a kid with daddy issues and some fancy pre-war tech." He took another few steps forward. "Yeh see, the only real currency is information, and you're poor as dirt. What do you know, Kiddo?"

"You're Irish, for starters." Jason responded immediately, recalling a terminal entry in Ten Penny Tower. "Brought across the ocean as a child. Your father, had set up trade routes running between the capital wasteland and other parts of the coast using the Duchess Gambit."

He watched Moriarty blanche. The Duchess Gambit had been a lucky guess. But clearly an effective one. He continued, his tone growing more disdainful by the second. "Your dad died in 2241. You had inherited both the wealth, and the bar, but haven't used it to benefit anyone but yourself."

"And that's not all I know." He added firmly. "I know that today, tomorrow, or maybe the day after, the mutant horde is going to come pouring out of the D.C. ruins. When they get here, they're going to slaughter everyone left in this town. I'm trying to save them. So is Simms."

"I say this town moves when_ I _decide. And no one's going anywhere while there's caps to be made."

"That's your final answer?" Jason hafted his railway rifle.

Colin hesitated, noting the movement. "Yeh wouldn't dare kill me. Without me, this town-"

* * *

><p>The Lone Wanderer walked slowly down the stairs onto the bar's main floor. Nova was sitting in a chair, wrapped in a thick blanket. She was staring ashen faced at a small trickle of blood pouring through a hole in the ceiling. The hole itself had been produced by one of Jason's railroad spikes.<p>

Gob was standing beside her, protectively. The ghoul had a baseball bat in his hands. Jason eyed it while loading a fresh set of spikes into his weapon. Then he met the ghoul's eye and said, "You two should be outside."

"You killed Moriarty." Gob said, shocked.

Jason's gaze slid momentarily to the trickle of red. The patter of each droplet hitting the floor was thunderous. "Very observant."

"Why?"

"Saving lives. If it survives, the bar is yours, Gob." He glanced at Nova and headed for the door. "Put some clothes on. You'll catch a cold."

* * *

><p><strong>So thank you to everyone who responded. I was amazed and humbled by the sheer number of suggestions and support shown in dealing with the Brutus issue. I read them all, and they generally seem to fall into two camps. <strong>

**The first is to have some great philosophical discussion cause him to either repent or go even crazier.**

**The second is to simplify him. Rewrite him into a background menace. Give him just enough face time to remind the reader that he's there, but keep him quiet and menacing. No background at all. Or perhaps vague hints at most.**

**To be honest, I prefer the latter. I wanted him to be the epitome of the vault 87 Supermutant menace, as was suggested by Uncle Leo in chapter 20 of Modus Operandi. This is what I was aiming for, and after the next chapter, I'm going to go back over all of his scenes, and turn him into this. I'm hoping it'll drastically improve the story and get it back up to the high standards I try to set for myself, and this series.**

**So thank you again.**

**Next chapter is the re-opening of Vault 101.**


	14. Chapter 14

Mutatis Mutandis 14

Jason was perched idly on top of the nuclear bomb, using his combat knife to clean dirt buildup off of his weapons. The town of Megaton was slowly gathering in front of him, shaken to wakefulness by Simms. The Stahl family were standing watch behind their bar. Lucy West was leaning against the church of the Children of the Atom, watching curiously.

Jason was actually rather fond of her. He had even harbored a small crush on her for a time but, as had happened to every opportunity until Sarah his persona as the Wanderer had gotten in the way, forcing him into solitude. Lucy was like him; a fellow victim of the universe's cruel sense of humor.

The Brotherhood remnants were standing in a loose formation on the path outside Doc Church's clinic. Sarah was not a part of the formation, but had positioned herself off to the side, her arms crossed and expression impatient. She met Jason's eye and mouthed the words 'You promised'. He nodded in response.

Lucas Simms took one last look at the crowd, to make sure that everyone was in attendance, and then he whistled to get their attention.

"What's this about, Simms?" Jericho called out. "You know how early it is?"

"Still recovering from your hangover?" Jenny Stahl called back acidly. A few chuckles spread through the crowd.

"It ain't like that…" the former raider muttered to himself.

"No? Let's ask Moriarty."

"Moriarty is dead." Nova said loudly. She was still wearing the blanket Gob had put around her. Jason was pleased to see that she seemed to have attached herself to the ghoul, who was standing protectively beside her.

Silence fell over the crowd, muffling the world, and every eye turned to Jason. He opened his mouth, but Sarah Lyons beat him to the punch. "I'm going to ask you a very simple question." She said. "Do you want to live?"

Megaton stayed silent as she walked into the central clearing and stood beside Simms. She could feel Jason's gaze on the back of her neck. She pointed east. "A few days ago the Supermutants crushed the Brotherhood of steel. My father, Elder Lyons, is dead, alongside almost every single Knight. The Citadel has been completely leveled. It wasn't even a battle. We were curb-stomped." She pointed at the small division of weary soldiers. "We're all that's left." She stared at the front row of worried faces, and decided to drive the point home. "Even now they're laying siege to Rivet City, and they've taken Project Purity. You're next."

The crowd was silent for a moment, pondering the implications. If the _Brotherhood_ had fallen so easily, what chance did Megaton have?

"So we start arming." Lucy said.

"We aren't staying here." Simms replied. Murmurs of confusion and dissent began to echo through the crowd. He raised a hand, trying to calm them. "I've discussed this at great lengths with the Wanderer, and he thinks it's best. I trust him."

"He wants us to move?" Church, the town's doctor, glared at Simms "Is he insane?"

"Irrelevant." Sarah told him in a mechanical voice. Up on the bomb, Jason frowned slightly; she'd picked up far too many of his mannerisms for his own good conscience. She continued, "If you want to live, you have to. You'll get destroyed here. The Wasteland can't afford that."

"Well I ain't goin'." Church snapped, daring Sarah to respond. "I don't wanna spend the rest of my life in some vault!"

"Just until the mutants have been dealt with." Simms assured him. "This is for our safety."

"And what happens to the town, huh?" Church fought back. "They'll destroy it!"

"Better it than us!" Lucy said. A few citizens nodded in agreement.

"We're not going!" said another voice. The crowd parted to reveal Confessor Cromwell, a tall, sickly, pale man who always appeared one missed Rad-Away dose from death. Jason frowned slightly, wondering just how much of the substance the man had wasted.

"This is our home, Simms!" Cromwell said, "We're not leaving! No matter what _he _says!" he pointed up at the Lone Wanderer. "This is the Church of the Children of the Atom, and we will not leave the Glow!"

His followers nodded defiantly.

Jason shifted slightly in response, his knife vanishing within the folds of his duster. The quiet movement attracted all the attention it needed to.

He slid down the bomb, his feet splashing in the irradiated pool. He walked slowly up the slope, serenaded by the ticking of his Pipboy's Geiger counter. Silence fell over the crowd as he proceeded up to the priest. Irradiated water ran down the worn leather of his combat boots, and formed a small puddle on the ground.

"Children of the Atom?" he asked carefully. Though he spoke softly, no one missed a word. "What has the Atom given you, Cromwell?" he nodded at the pool. "What gifts have the Waters of the Glow given you?"

The Priest didn't answer.

The Wanderer held his Pipboy up for all to see. "Four hundred Rads."

His Combat knife appeared in his palm, and he held out his bare hand, cutting a thin line down the meat below his thumb. Blood beaded across the opening, and eventually filled the wound, seeping out the edge and rolling down his wrist. He began to walk along the edge of the crowd, stealing their attention from Cromwell. They stepped back as if pushed by an invisible field. Gasps of horror and surprise followed his trail as the audience watched his wound slowly seal itself, leaving a pale scar which faded just as fast as the wound had.

At last, he came full circle, standing in front of Cromwell again. The Priest's mouth was hanging open in shock.

"The Atom gave me this!" Jason announced to the town at large. He met the eyes of Cromwell's congregation. "The ability to heal faster. The ability to fight harder, see farther, hear more clearly! The Glow gave me these gifts!" He waved at the Confessor. "He may be your priest. But me? I'm your goddamned _Messiah_! And _I _say you're getting in that vault!"

He pointed up at Megaton's gate, and waited in deathly silence.

Cromwell's flock kept staring, making quick mental calculations. Drawing a line in the proverbial sand between Cromwell and Jason, and sorting themselves accordingly. Few stayed true to their shepherd, turning to Jason in his stead.

Jason turned back to the rest of Megaton. "You aren't the only ones. I'm going to every settlement in the wasteland." He met Lucy's questioning gaze. "Especially Arefu and Bigtown. This is a threat to every one of you, and until I've laid it to rest _and I will!_ You're going to have to stay somewhere they can't reach you."

Lucas Simms stepped forward, spreading his arms wide. "I want to ask you all a question: has the Wanderer ever done anything to hurt this town? Has he ever done anything to hurt this wasteland? He fought off the Enclave! He killed the slavers! He's held off the supermutants and brought clean fresh water to all of you! For four god damned years, he's worked non-stop to make all of our lives better!" He finally settled on Doc Church, who was losing allies at a considerable rate. "So when he says that this has to happen… that it'll save your lives…" he died away into silence, still gazing into Church's eyes.

"He killed Moriarty."

"Moriarty was going to keep you all here. He was going to blackmail and bribe and do everything in his power to stop me from saving you." Jason explained shortly. "So yes. I killed him."

"This town's better for it." Simms added. There was a general nod of assent, especially fervent from those who had been blackmailed by the Irish bartender.

"Pack your things, grab some weapons from the armory, and get moving." The Wanderer gave the townsfolk one last look, and then started up the hill. The Brotherhood was sucked up in his wake, followed closely by his supporters from the Church of the Atom. Others slowly began to follow them, though whether it was out of belief in the Wanderer, fear of the Supermutants, or mere peer pressure was entirely unknown. And one by one, the settlement fell in line. The exodus began.

* * *

><p>Sarah followed Jason, Simms and Rothchild up the slope to the entrance of Vault 101. The Wanderer had a familiar look on his face, though it was one Sarah hadn't seen in quite a long time.<p>

Jason possessed the ability to sink into the Wanderer persona at will, but rarely had Sarah ever seen him cling to it. Not since she'd first learned his name. Yet he bore that expression no; a lost young man, clinging to his only anchor. The Wanderer was his port in the storm, and shelter from the emotional turmoil that she could only guess at.

She knew why, of course; he was going to open up the vault. His ho- No! She corrected, not his home. Just the place he'd spent the first nineteen years of his life. She didn't know much about what had happened to him in the vault. It was one of his most closely guarded secrets, though he had so many of those that attempting to ferret out the truth was akin to hunting a needle in a haystack.

All Sarah knew was that things had ended badly.

He turned to her, and looked past her at the armed and grim-faced citizens of Megaton. The Brotherhood remnants were there too, holding their weapons at ease. Kodiak had a sniper rifle, and was situated on the nearest bluff, watching the east for any flash of green. For a moment Sarah wished more than anything else that Gallows was with them. The stoic sniper's presence had always made her feel at ease.

Off in the distance, they could hear the faint echoes of guttural shouting and jeers, carried on the wind along with the scent of smoke and rotting flesh. Apparently not all the bodies at the citadel had been burned yet. But at least it confirmed that Jason and Simms had chosen the correct course of action for Megaton.

A few moments later, they heard the distant pounding of enormous feet on pavement. A volcanic rumble, heralding their doom. The Mutants were on the move, and clock was ticking.

The Wanderer turned and addressed the Brotherhood. "Once the door is open, move in. Take the vault, but only kill if you have to." He slipped off his red bandana and handed it reverently to Lucas Simms. The Sheriff took it in silence and pocketed it. The two of them shared a slow, meaningful nod, the significance of which was completely lost on both Sarah and Rothchild.

"So, what's the plan?" the Scribe asked. "How are you going to open it?"

Jason's hand disappeared into his open duster and emerged gripping a 10mm pistol. He held it out to the Elder, bearing a blank expression on his face. "Shoot me."

Simms blinked in shock and stared down at the weapon. "_Say what?_"

Jason grunted in frustration at the man's lack of reaction, and turned to Sarah. She took it without a word and fired four bullets into the Wanderer's gut.

His face paled, body bucking with each shot until the pain and shock drove him to one knee. He crouched there, clutching his abdomen and breathing in short gasps as he fought for control. Sarah, who was holding the gun loosely at her side, found it promptly snatched away by Rothchild, who was watching her nervously.

"Don't give me that look!" she snapped, "he asked."

"You didn't have to do it four times though…" the Wanderer grimaced, rising to his feet and glaring at her. "Once would have been enough."

"Haven't you ever wanted to test your limits?" she asked, grinning evilly.

"I got shot in the head once!" he shot back hoarsely.

"So did I!" she tapped her scar.

"That was a glancing shot." He muttered, holding his stomach with tender care. Blood had spread down the front of his shirt, staining his clothing. He shouldered open the door and disappeared into the darkness of the tunnel. "Doesn't count."

* * *

><p>Amata burst through the door to the Overseer's office, hot on the tail of Susie Mack, the Vault's head of security.<p>

"Are you sure?" she asked again.

"It's him." the blonde said grimly, opening the security feed.

It _was _him. Amata felt her heart wrench as Jason stumbled towards the vault door, collapsing occasionally, but fighting back to his feet. Each time he landed on his knees, he stayed there a little longer, and his walk afterwards was a little weaker. His clothing was stained with blood.

"_Please, Amata!_" the man cried, his voice frail. He was using the control panel for support. "_Help me!_" he begged, making her heart wrench. "_Amata!_"

"Open the door!" she ordered.

Susie gave her a shocked look.

"Open it!"

"I've told you about him." Susie warned. "This doesn't feel right. The legends say he can't be killed! You've heard Three-Dog's broadcasts!"

"_Please, Amata!_"

"He's been shot. He's my friend and I'm not going to watch him bleed to death on the other side of that door!" Amata snapped, silencing her companion. On the screen, Jason had slipped to one knee. His pleading had stopped, but the bubbling, labored breaths hadn't.

Susie sighed. "Alright… but I'm bringing a few security guards with me."

* * *

><p>Susie had managed to gather six of the Vault's guards, four of them from the days when Alphonse had been the Overseer. Amata disliked them, and had instructed Susie, to watch them closely. But there weren't enough left for her to be picky. Especially on such short notice.<p>

The entrance room was as untouched as ever, and she could still see the footprints Jason had left in the dust during his escape and subsequent return and banishment. That day, she had broken something in him. The look in his eyes had vengefully haunted her for the past four years, a constant thorn in her side. She felt the familiar sting of guilt, and repressed it, shutting her eyes tightly until the memory of his stunned face had faded enough to let her think.

Susie was directing the vault guards around the room, prompting them behind various points of cover. During her few trips outside, the woman had managed to obtain assault rifles and a few other odds and ends, making sure that the Vault security force was ready to take on the wasteland. They had grenades now! Two per guard! Never in her life had Amata ever imagined actually seeing real-life grenades, but there they were, zipped safely away in carrying cases on the belt of each guard.

She waited patiently until they were properly situation, and then gave the order: "Open the door."

Susie gave her one last questioning look, and then obeyed, pulling the lever on the small console. All at once the room lit up, the klaxon blaring, red lights spinning. Machinery clanked and whirred, and the motor on the ceiling slid forward on its rusted rail, screwing itself into the enormous cog-shaped door.

Amata was reminded of that fateful day so many years ago when she'd watched the same thing happen in reverse. Jason had kissed her that day… back when everything had seemed so… innocent. Panic gripped her as the image on the monitor. Her childhood friend was on the other side of the door at that very moment, bleeding to death. She silently willed the door to open faster.

The door slid open and rolled aside, revealing the inky darkness of the tunnel beyond, but no Jason.

"Hello?" Susie called out.

The darkness stayed silent. Amata and Susie glanced at each other.

"Jason?" she asked uncertainly. She took a step forward.

The darkness emitted an odd puttering noise, and the six vault guards crumpled to the floor. Amata barely had time to register the blood before their attacker had moved in. She had a vague image of brown leather and blonde hair before he engaged Susie, disarming her and slamming the butt of her rifle into her face, knocking her out cold. Then he was onto Amata herself, who was reaching for her pistol before it was yanked from her grasp. Less than a second later she was pressed up against the wall of the vault, a black silenced assault rifle against her chin.

She stared into the man's cold, hard eyes. She knew those eyes, had thought about them on a daily basis ever since the last time she'd seen them. She'd seen them wide with fright, shining with tears, bright with laughter, but she'd never seen them so completely devoid of any shred of humanity.

"…Jason?" she breathed.

"Quiet." He replied mechanically, unblinking. The boy she'd read comic books with as a child, was a killer now. An animal in human skin. The intensity of his gaze was oppressive, and in complete contrast with the flatness of his tone.

Keeping her pinned against the wall, he used her 10mm pistol and fired three shots at the floor. In response, the darkness surged forward as dozens of dirty, irradiated wastelanders rushed into the vault, all armed at least as well as the security guards. Amata took one look at their grim expressions and steadfast resolve, and knew that her vault wouldn't stand a chance.

She began to struggle against his hold. "No! Jason! What have you done?"

His fist landed in her gut and she slumped to the floor, trying not to vomit. She hadn't been hit that hard since officer Mack's beating.

"Quiet." He said again.

"We would have opened it!" she whimpered, crawling backwards. "Just a little more time-"

"We're out of time." Jason told her impatiently as the wastelanders streamed past behind him. "The vault opens now."

* * *

><p>Sarah was among the last to enter the vault. Glade and Simms were leading the charge. Sarah had elected to stay behind and protect Rothchild. Jason had told her of life in the vault. Well… he hadn't, actually. The only words he'd ever uttered on the subject were succinct, and very depressing: 'I don't <em>want<em> to remember _any_ of it. Those who were my friends died. Those who weren't either stabbed me in the back or stabbed me in the front! It was dark, smelly, and miserable. Good riddance.'

Those words had set in her mind a very clear picture of life inside the vault. She didn't want to step beyond the cog-shaped opening, she wanted to fight. She wanted to march over to the D.C. ruins and pay the mutants back for destroying her life, family, and recovery. But she trusted Jason to know what he was doing.

As she marched through the tunnel, weapon in hand, the thought struck her that she was about to see the Wanderer's home, back when he was just Jason Howlett. His experiences here had shaped him, no doubt as much as his experience in the wasteland had. This was James Howlett's home as well, and she wondered how much information on Jason's history was locked inside. How many diaries? How many stories? The cancer of curiosity grew within her, forcing her forward.

The cog-shaped opening was much larger than she'd anticipated. The cold concrete blue beyond, cleaner. The vault was a cramped space, bringing her back to her childhood days on the west coast. Whereas the Brotherhood bunker had been a warm, comforting place, Vault 101 was cold and clinical. Dead, in a way, like a tool that had outlived its usefulness.

Jason was standing in the foyer with Simms, allowing the last of the invasion force by to saturate the vault. He was holding a young woman at gunpoint. She was wearing a vault suit. She looked the same age as Jason, yet also far younger. And she was scared.

Yet another memory from her distant trip to the Pitt popped into Sarah's head. Perhaps it was the way the prisoner was watching Jason. Even more telling was the way he was watching her, with a combination of guilt, love and absolute fury.

"Amata." Sarah said. He'd mistakenly called her that once, and had closed up so tightly afterwards that she'd been afraid he'd never open again.

They both looked at her in shock. Jason recovered first, his fury fading to be replaced with cold indifference.

"Who are you?" the woman asked.

Sarah ignored her, instead turning to Jason. "When are we leaving?"

To her amazement, he pulled her forward and planted a chaste kiss upon her lips.

"I'm sorry." He said.

"For what?" she started to ask, but with one hand, he was already pulling the pin on a pulse grenade. His other hand was closing the vault door. Before she could react, the grenade discharged, sending static arcs through the air, the electrical shock paralyzing everyone present for a few precious seconds.

Jason recovered first and was outside the vault before Sarah had risen to her feet.

"I'm sorry." He called out again as the door slowly rolled shut. She stumbled forward, unable to make her feet pay attention. He raised his rifle and fired eight shots, tearing the interior vault door controls to shreds. "But I can't lose Megaton."

Realizing what he was doing, she let out a bellow of disbelief and charged forwards, racing against the pre-war machinery. She reached the door just as it slid closed, locking her in.

"Jason!" she screamed impotently, white-hot rage flowing through her. She flung herself against the door again and again. "Jason! Open this fucking door! You promised me!" her fists pounded the unrelenting metal until they bled. "You promised! You Promised! _You Promised!_"

* * *

><p>Jason lowered his rifle and stared at the vault door. "…Or you." He whispered he regretted what he'd done to Sarah, and to Amata. Both of them. He did, in his heart of hearts. But the mutant strategy was Slash and Burn. They weren't driving populations out; they were slaughtering them. If the wasteland was to have any chance at all, he needed as many people alive as possible. There wasn't time to organize a centralized resistance, but he could save lives.<p>

Anything to benefit the Capital Wasteland at any cost to anyone outside it, and at any cost to himself personally. That was the Lone Wanderer's Modus Operandi, and that's what it would take to beat the Mutants. He'd given enough to Sarah, and it was long past time he started doing his duty to the Wasteland.

He knelt down and used his combat knife to open up Vault 101's control panel. Locking the humans inside to protect them would be for nothing if the mutants could simply open it up again. Jason had spent four years repairing his own gear, picking locks, and hacking –as much as he hated it- into computer systems. As the Lone Wanderer, his most overlooked trait was a certain working technical expertise. As it was, he easily found, removed, and pocketed the control board. After that was done, he headed back down the tunnel, the next stage of his plan running through his mind. Lock resources down. Unlock them when needed, and not before.

He stood at the scenic overlook and gazed east, towards the D.C. ruins. To his shock, he found that the signature silhouette of the Washington monument was missing. A part of him seemed to shut down as he worried for the people of Underworld. Perhaps the mutants would leave the Ghouls alone.

And perhaps the Ghouls would stand up for the humans when the chips were down.

Either way the fact that his enemies had destroyed the monument drove home their commitment to humanity's utter destruction in a way nothing else ever had, and Jason felt his resolve harden. He glanced back at the vault door, tempted for a moment.

Yes, there would be time enough to let her out again, but a suicidal charge against the mutants was useless. The humans needed a strategist, and an army, and Jason knew where to get both-

"Aroo?"

The noise made him turn. To his utter shock, Dogmeat was standing behind him, watching him with doleful eyes.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Jason raised an imperious finger. "Run, boy!"

The dog's head tilted slightly to the left, ears perking.

"Go!" Jason ordered firmly. "Bad dog! Run!" his hand dropped uselessly to his side as the dog staunchly refused to move.

"This isn't your problem, Dogmeat. Just get out of here. Please."

The mutt padded forward and nuzzled his hand, and Jason found himself petting Dogmeat in response. He knelt and wrapped his arms around the dog's neck, resting his head against his companion's rough fur. The feeling of his own bangs craping against his exposed forehead was unfamiliar and irritating. He sighed and got back to his feet.

"Are you sure?"

The mutt's tail wagged happily.

"Then on your own head it be, Dogmeat." Jason said shortly. "We're going to Rivet City first."

The mutt barked in response, and the two of them headed to war.

* * *

><p><strong>If you're wondering what the hold-up was, the opening scene was a bitch. Took me weeks. I did a little experiment with Skyrim, in the meantime. It's called 'A Good Fight' Check it out if you're curious. I'm kinda forming Skyrim plans, but I want to wait until I'm back on track with Fallout first. Work is killing my muse.<strong>

**This chapter took so long because of that opening sequence. The rest was written in about six days. Hopefully the wait was worth it. I tried to give a lot of payoff in this chapter to those of you who remember certain conversations from Modus Operandi, and the first chapter of this book.**

**Over the next few weeks, I'm going to be re-working all the scenes with Brutus. If you happen to catch any of them, let me know what you think.**


	15. Chapter 15

Mutatis Mutandis 15

Commander Jackrum of the Talon Company flicked the butt of his cigarette into the dirt and ground away the smoke with the ball of his foot. The swift carrion birds circling high above his head sent faint shadows racing across the parched landscape

"We can't keep doing this." Turner said again.

Jackrum sighed. "Let'em in. Open the gate!"

His order was relayed along the newly fortified Talon Company headquarters. The stream of terrified wasters moved forward in a grim procession, flowing into the courtyard of the Talon Company headquarters. A few younger mercs were standing in a line, directing the flow and sorting the refugees as best they could.

Fort Bannister had been a mess when he'd taken command those weeks ago, and his first project had been its reconstruction and strengthening. It had been a make-work project, and a way to give his mercenaries, both old a new, a sense of identity and unity. This wasn't just a gaggle of heartless mercs. This was the Talon Company. The project to rebuild their home taught pride and respect.

The rearming had also prepared them for the coming storm. Jackrum had known about Brutus and the Mutants. He'd met their leader long before anyone else in the Wasteland -anyone else still _alive_ in the wasteland- had ever heard the name. Cleaning up the Talon Company had begun with eliminating the corrupt leadership. Jackrum knew that though he'd succeeded, there were still plenty of lingering questions with unpleasant answers. The Talon company had been working with Brutus, planning to double-cross the mutant in order to clear the way for something else. Something worse. For his cooperation, Jackrum had been offered more caps than most ever saw.

But Burke and Jabsco had also asked him to compromise his morals, twisted though they were and _that _was unacceptable.

So there he was, in charge of the second most heavily fortified pseudo-military installation in the wasteland, awaiting what he knew would probably be the longest siege in post-war history. He'd had his men build low walls of concrete and sheet metal. Sandbags filled the gaps, and there were more slits and peepholes than he could count. Every fifteen feet had a small shack set up. Every second shack had either a turret, or a mininuke launcher with a full stock of ammunition. The bowels of the fort were stocked with Aqua Pura and other necessities. He'd sent major expeditions out to the ruins of Evergreen Mills, Paradise Falls, and a few other stockpiles. Jason Howlett had given him a private list of hidden weapons stockpiles. The Wanderer had been busy over the four years, and Jackrum had benefitted greatly from their haphazard alliance.

The cliff overlooking the newly renovated fort had been heavily mined, and fortified. Every inch of ground on the slope leading up to it, and to the weakest parts of all the defenses, had been sighted with mini-nuke mortars.

Jackrum had done all of this, and thought he was ready. Then he'd heard of the fall of the Citadel, and the utter destruction of the Brotherhood of Steel. Confidence had been promptly replaced with cold dread.

He wasn't the only one, either. Plenty had heard Three-Dog's last broadcast. And plenty had heard of the Talon Company's restructuring. Immediately the poor, the weak, and the innocent in the wasteland had come begging at his door, pleading for shelter. Soft-hearted as he was, and despite his own doubts, Jackrum had been unable to deny them hope. So he watched them stream into the compound and sign up. Men, women, and even a few children. Drifters, drunkards, wayfarers, and wanderers had all joined up. He had close to four hundred recruits already, and the numbers were growing at alarming rates.

"We can't keep this up." Sergeant Turner told him, flicking through his clipboard. The young merc was smart. Probably smarter than Jackrum himself. The kid had shown a knack for logistics, and Jackrum trusted him to run the supply chains. Unfortunately that meant tolerating the boy's clipboard. Jackrum _despised _clipboards, but lists and numbers were what separated the Talon Company from the common fighting rabble. Things were made Official upon being written down, and Approved when an unintelligible signature was added.

"At this rate we'll run out of supplies by the end of the month."

"Scavenge further." Jackrum said. "Try the subway tunnels. The power stations. Weaker settlements if we have to. The Muties'll take it if we don't."

"But-"

"Have you ever watched a slaughter, kid?" the old merc asked. "Have you ever seen helpless people cornered and gunned down? It ain't pretty." He watched as a young family, their faces flush with exhaustion, crossed the threshold and took a moment to celebrate their relief.

"I grew up in Rivet City." Jackrum told him. "One day when I was a little kid, the muties attacked. My Pa got caught on the wrong side of the drawbridge, along with a few others. They shot him in the ass and dragged him off."

"What did you do?" Turner asked carefully, watching his superior officer.

Jackrum smiled at the memory. "Lit my first cigarette and laughed my ass off. Bastard had a mean right hook and a temper to match it." His smile faltered. "But old lady Weatherly, Vera's mother, she wasn't so bad. Gave me food and hid me from'im when I needed it. Same with Joey's parents."

"Who's Joey?"

"Security guard. A friend of mine. Helped me out of a few rough spots." He nodded in satisfaction as the last of the refugees made it into the compound, and the heavily reinforced door groaned shut. "In this world, all you got to rely on is other people, kid. There's enough things trying to kill us out there, now's not the time to shut our doors."

"But the supplies-"

"You wanna tell'em to fuck off? Be my guest." Jackrum suggested, motioning at the crowd. Turner followed his gaze. The young family had settled on a slab of broken concrete. The mother, a dark-haired young woman, was gently massaging her son's feet. "Go on, Turner. Tell'em to leave."

"I…" Turner opened his mouth, then shut it and looked down, defeated. "I can't." he glanced at his clipboard. "I'll make things stretch."

The Veteran's hand landed comfortingly "Cos' your human, kid." He gazed southeast, to the skyline of D.C.. the Washington monument was missing, and pale smoke was rising above the city, shrouding it in haze.

He said, "And sumthin' tells me before this is over, things are gonna get a lot worse for our kind."

* * *

><p>Dusk had fallen over the world by the time Jason reached the western shore of the Potomac. He crouched behind a concrete divider and peered through his scope. Immediately in front of him, at the bottom of an exposed slope, was the Duchess Gambit. A body, swollen with salt water and stinking of gut-rot, was floating in the Potomac, bumping gently against the dock. He'd encountered worse stenches, but this one was distracting. Across the river, Acrid smoke was rising from Project Purity, but that was not Jason's target. He buried the anger and looked further, to the dozen or so Behemoths trudging back and forth across the open ground between the wasteland's salvation and its capital.<p>

Rivet City was holding out; in the twilight, Jason could see the lines of tracer rounds and the muzzle flashes from sniper rifles. The thrumming staccato of distant gunfire offset the calming sound of the ocean waves. Both were interrupted by the unbearable stench of the corpse. Nadine's, probably.

Sarah's doing.

Irrelevant. The Worst thing about losing Nadine was losing access to Calvert. But it seemed that another trip to Point Lookout would have turned out badly for him regardless, so perhaps it was for the best. All things considered, Sarah had probably done him a favor.

Jason peered back through the scope. The Behemoths were up to something. There was a structure and pattern to their movements. Their efforts seemed to be focused around the fire. From his position, Jason could make out three, which probably meant that there were at least two more behind Project Purity, but he could not make out much more. He'd have to move closer.

He cross slipped silently over the barrier and down the slope, holding his nose as he crossed the dock. Dogmeat padded along behind him, growling quietly at the mutants across the bay. Jason took a moment to stash all weapons that couldn't survive the trip through the water. He had no intention of fighting. Merely some reconnaissance to find out exactly what he was dealing with. He kept his combat knife, a 10mm pistol, and the Perforator. The silenced weapons was a black-ops version of the regular American assault rifle, and it had been designed to withstand the more bizarre environmental conditions associated with such operations.

When he was ready, he turned to Dogmeat. The mutt was not good at sneaking, or infiltration, or any of the tactics Jason was so well-practiced in. That was the reason Jason had always left him behind, and he had no intention of needlessly putting Dogmeat's life in danger. Besides, someone had to guard the weapons.

His companion whined at him but obeyed when he gave the order to stay put. The water was cold, but this was nothing new to Jason, who took a few seconds to adjust, and then quietly paddled forward, leaving barely a ripple in the water behind him. He had been forced to swim many times over the course of his travels, often loaded with far more equipment than he was currently carrying. He reached the other side and crept ashore, taking temporary shelter underneath the low wall at the western edge of the Lincoln memorial plateau. Soaking wet, he let the worst of the water drip away. His hair was soaking wet, and he squeezed it dry, missing his bandana; the bangs were constantly in his eyes. When he was ready, he peered up over the top of the wall.

A supermutant sentry was standing guard, but turned inwards, watching the violent flashing lights of the Rivet City siege. Jason scanned the sapphire skyline and spotted two more sentries, thirty feet in either direction, spaced around the outer rim of Project Purity.

Three silenced bullets later there were no sentries spaced around the outer edge of Project Purity, and Jason was skirting around the building itself. He reached tangle of walkways, scaffolding and pipes which covered the front of the memorial, and ducked in the shadows beneath them, circling counterclockwise until he was in full view of the Mutant encampment. Listening to the stomp of heavy feet above his head, he settled down to watch.

The Mutants were burning seashells. The enormous net sacks, normally filled with ichor and body parts, were packed tightly with seashells of all shapes and sizes.

Why the hell…?

He ducked further into the shadows as an overlord shambled out of the tidal basin, hefting another bag over its shoulder.

Jason's frown deepened; they were dumping the sacks into the fire, causing acrid pale smoke to rise into the sky, blotting out the stars. The mist stung his eyes, making him tear up. Why would they burn seashells? That question needed answering, immediately. There was nothing ceremonial about it, Jason was sure. That meant it had something to do with the siege. He took a closer look at the mutants around the fire. A few of them had shovels and bags, and they were collecting and sifting through the ashes and forming a separate pile of pale powder, streaked with indefinable additives.

A chemical weapon.

Jason pulled out a stealthboy and switched it on, melting into the night.

* * *

><p>Horace Pinkerton was worried. Two days ago, he'd heard the opening volley of the Mutant attack. He'd checked through his peephole for a brief moment, seen the flood of green and grey pouring from the north and east, and promptly locked down his little sanctuary, doubling the traps and arming himself for the worst. He was currently in his lab, working desperately to fix an old set of armour. His best shot, he knew, lay in keeping his head down, but there was no harm in being prepared for the worst.<p>

He bent further over his work bench, tightening a few bolts. He'd reinforced his combat armour, adding extra plating to protect the lower abdomen and upper arms. It'd been a long time since the old man had used it, and he wanted it to be as sturdy as possible.

"Pinkerton."

The scientist jumped, his wrench flying from his grasp. The Wanderer was standing in a shadowy corner, barely visible. Pinkerton sniffed in irritation, straighting and wiping his hands off on his shirt. He said, "I suppose it was only a matter of time before you showed up…"

"Taken a look outside recently?" The Wanderer asked.

"Yep." The scientist answered immediately, his voice oozing dry sarcasm. "Stepped outside for a cigarette not ten minutes ago."

The Wanderer stared.

"What on earth do you _think _I did? Have you seen how many of them are out there?"

"They're burning seashells." The Wanderer told him.

Pinkerton sniggered. "Quite a hobby for a supermutant."

"They're collecting this stuff." The Wanderer placed a small bag of pale yellow powder on his work bench. "I sniffed it and it burned my nose."

"Idiot." Pinkerton said, gently but firmly pushing him aside. The scientist opened the bag and waved a hand above it, wafting some of the scent towards himself. He promptly backed away from the stinging, eye-watering stench.

"So what is it?"

"Shut up and let me work." Covering his nose and mouth with a handkerchief, he scooped a small amount of the stinging powder into a vial and set it in a test tube stand. He had a hypothesis, but he needed to confirmation. He crossed his workstation and pulled out a bottle of Aqua Pura, pouring a carefully estimated amount onto the powder. After a few moments, the water began to bubble, turning white and smoking slightly as the vial emitted a disquieting hissing noise.

"Water's boiling." Pinkerton confirmed. "What you got there, boy, is calcium oxide. Quicklime. I didn't know it came from seashells."

"Quicklime?" the Wanderer asked, but Pinkerton was already moving, far faster than he had been before. He crossed his lab again and pulled out a copy of the Big Book of Science, opening to the index and finding the relevant page. "Calcium Oxide, also known as Quicklime, is a caustic chemical compound widely used in a variety of industrial-"

"Skip ahead a little." The Wanderer ordered harshly. "Why do the Mutants want it?"

"To hurt us, if I absolutely _had _to guess." Pinkerton replied dryly. His finger traced down the page until it reached the list of health hazards. "Calcium Oxide causes severe irritation when inhaled or placed in contact with moist skin or eyes. Inhalation may cause coughing, sneezing, labored breathing. It may then evolve into burns with perforation of the nasal septum, abdominal pain, nausea and vomiting. Although quicklime is not considered a fire hazard, its reaction with water can release enough heat to ignite combustible materials."

Pinkerton snapped his book shut, staring at the cover in horror. "They're going to pump it into Rivet City. Mutants aren't that smart! _How do they know how to do that_?"

"How long do we have?" the Wanderer demanded grimly.

The scientist show his head, setting his book down. "I don't know. Until they feel they have enough lime, I suppose. They could start now if they wanted to."

"How do I stop it?"

"Get rid of the powder, _obviously_. How big is their pile?"

"Four feet by five in diameter. Conical."

"That's a lot of burnt seashells." Pinkerton mused. "I doubt they could collect that many again. Not for some time. They've probably used up most of the shells in the bay. The ones they can reach, anyway."

"How do I get rid of the pile?"

"Blow it up. You could scatter it. But then any human caught in the cloud will end up blind and probably dead."

Jason stared at the vial, and the boiling water within. His eyes narrowed, "would it blind the mutants?"

"I have no idea. They'd be coated in it, though."

The Wanderer cracked a smile. "And what would happen if they were then sprayed with Aqua Vitae?"

"Severe burns to any skin in contact with both. Quicklime eats flesh away." Pinkerton told him, scratching his chin. "That's a very… inhumane death."

"They're supermutants." The wanderer said mechanically. "Can you warn Rivet City? Tell them what I'm going to do?"

"I…" Pinkerton frowned. It'd been years since he'd set foot in that cursed settlement. Too much bad history… but now lives were at stake. He took a deep breath. "I suppose I could."

"Do it." The Wanderer melted into the darkness. "I've got to pay a visit to Project Purity."

* * *

><p><strong>A chemistry student could probably blow this entire chapter out of the water, but it's good enough for me, and they had nuclear-powered cars in this universe, not to mention Rad-away.<strong>

**Fuck it. On with it!**

**I also thought it was about time we reintroduce Jackrum. God, I love writing him. ****I'm pleased to say the absurdly long wait between last chapter and the one before it was an anomaly. My muse is singin' right now!**

**Anyway, I'll keep working. Reviews are appreciated They keep me going!**

**P.S. i updated the first of Brutus' new scenes (chapter 5, if i'm not mistaken). take a look and tell me what you think of his new attitude.**


	16. Chapter 16

Mutatis Mutandis 16

Jason was very surprised to find that Alex Dargon was still alive. The scientist, along with every other human wearing a white coat, had been stashed in a cage in the very bowels of Project Purity. The innards of the installation had been changed drastically by the sabotage three months before. Thin layers of sheet metal scavenged from the bow of Rivet City now formed a thin membrane covering the enormous tattered hole created by the explosion. Bridges and thin walkways weaved back and forth across the gap. Smaller hallways and rooms, some new, some familiar, dotted the outer wall, forming a complex three-dimensional maze at the very bottom of which was a small hallway leading to the unfortunate scientists. Hanging precariously over the entire enterprise was the control room, bolstered by the support of heavy steel beams bolted to the inner walls of the Project.

Jason had very little trouble getting down to the bottom. Project Purity was not well-guarded, most of the mutants' attentions having been directed at Rivet City. The light was minimal, and the mutants as impressively unobservant as ever.

Over the years, Jason had become very adept at the systematic cleansing of facilities. Especially those guarded by mutants. The process was akin to peeling an onion; starting with the exposed outer layer and working one's way inwards leaving nothing behind to catch up. Practical application of the method came down to simple skill and timing; picking mutants off one or two at a time, never without knowing where every other mutant in the immediate area was, and which way they were facing. After a while it became instinctive, and all too easy.

The lowest bridge was a dozen feet from the ground, and Jason was able to leap silently onto the floor. It was an uneven surface, filled with potholes and wreckage, and he was able to land evenly with barely a grunt. His legs, assisted by the four hundred rad healing factor recovered easily, and he'd shouldered his silenced assault rifle, leveling it at the only door left. The entrance was filled with shadows, but there was light at the far end of the hallway. The guttural call of an overlord echoed through the space.

"Stupid Human! Why you no talk? We beat your Citadel! Stomped it! Crushed it!" the monster burst out laughing.

Jason crept to the entrance and peeked inside. Humans in white lab coats were being kept at the far end, chained to the floor. Their heads were down, and Jason couldn't make out any faces, but it was clear that an order had been issued not to kill anyone in a white uniform.

Jason's brow creased; why would they save the scientists?

No point in wondering. Not when he could ask them in person.

He slung his assault rifle across his back and pulled out his combat knife, testing the blade with his thumb. It seemed sharp enough to pull off the move. He reached into his lapel and retrieved his pistol, firing a single shot at the far wall of the cylindrical central chamber. Immediate silence fell in the room at the end of the hall, and he readied himself against the wall, knife at the ready.

"What was that?" the mutant growled. Heavy footsteps grew close, and the overlord's head appeared beyond the doorframe like a horrid half-moon. The knife slid neatly across its throat, severing it from ear to ear, cutting its windpipe and spilling a sheet of blood onto the floor. The mutant gibbered and clutched in futile, trying to stem the tide. It had just enough time register Jason's presence as the Wanderer strode smartly past it and marched down the tunnel.

"Where the hell have _you _been?" Alex Dargon demanded as Jason set about freeing him.

"Occupied." The Wanderer answered neutrally.

"I told you he'd come!" a female scientist happily declared to the young scribe beside her. "I told you he would!"

"Is it true?" the young scribe asked. She looked young, and Jason vaguely recognized her as a scribe from the citadel. Of no consequence; a nameless face hiding behind a clipboard. She was staring at him with a mixture of awe and fear. She asked, "Is the Citadel gone?"

The other scientists were listening closely. There were a dozen in total, all bruised, malnourished and, until _very _recently, devoid of hope. Another detail Jason noted with some concern: Dargon aside, all the prisoners were female.

Jason regarded her for a moment, then responded in a neutral tone. "Flattened. Completely. Elder Lyons is dead. The Brotherhood is gone."

He turned back to Alex, ignoring the fearful groaning. "Why did they want you alive?"

"I don't know!" the scientist told him. "There was a smart one. He's colored differently. Told us we were here to build their future."

"Hard to do that while chained to the floor." The Wanderer observed quietly, examining the barren room.

"I think they were going to take us somewhere." Alex settled on the floor, rubbing his wrists. Cuts and blue ribbon bruises marked the spot where the manacles had held his hands together. He glanced over at the terrified young scribe beside him and offered her a reassuring smile.

"Where?"

"I don't know."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

Jason gestured at the others. "Why are all the other prisoners women?"

"I don't know that either." Dargon glared at him. "They aren't very talkative, alright? And where were you, huh? The Citadel's _gone_? Where were you?"

"Saving Three Dog."

"Three Dog? Is he still alive?"

"For the moment." Jason eyed the other scientists. "It's bad everywhere. I had priorities." He swallowed and looked down at his feet. "I didn't think the Citadel would fall."

Dargon sighed and set about freeing his companions. "Well at least you're here now. we can get out, right?"

"Actually, I need a water fountain."

"May I suggest the nearest subway system." Dargon said, his back turned as he held a scribe to her feet.

"This one has to be about thirty feet high."

Dargon snapped around, intrigued.

"The mutants are cooking quicklime outside." Jason explained. "They want to pump it into Rivet City."

The reactions were immediate and grim: "My god…" "That would blind the entire opulation." "They'd be helpless." "When did the muties get that smart?"

"They have a pile of it out front." Jason continued, cutting them off. He looked from eye to eye, making sure they were all paying attention. "And all the mutants in the area are coated in it."

There was a pause while all the scientist processed the new data. Alex chuckled, shaking his head. "And that's why you want a water fountain. "

The Wanderer nodded neutrally.

Alex's grin widened. "You are an evil, heartless, conniving bastard, mister Howlett. And your father would be proud."

He immediately set about handing out instructions, pointing from scribe to scribe. "Katelyn, run diagnostics on the pumps. Make sure they can supply the pressure we need. Eileen, pull the schematics. I want to know where to direct flow. Maya, Shannon, you help her with flow direction. The rest of you grab any weapons you can and meet me in the control room."

"This place is free of muties, right?" one scribe asked hesitantly.

"On the inside. Just stay out of sight." Jason told them.

Looking reassured, they each left to their assigned tasks.

"We'll have this ready in fifteen minutes. Just keep watch until then."

"That fast?"

"I built this version, Jason." Alex reminded him. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

Jason nodded and turned to follow the suddenly bustling group of scientists. Alex grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him back.

The Scribe leaned inwards, a grave expression on his face. "After the smoke clears, they're all going to come here."

The Wanderer nodded slowly. "You'll have escaped before then."

"Oh." Dargon looked extremely relieved.

"Or you'll be dead." the Wanderer continued. He shrugged. "Either way, we'll have saved Rivet City, and that's the important bit."

"I need more than that. These are some of the greatest minds in the capital wasteland." Alex told him.

Jason sighed. "The moment the fountain goes, you book it east across the bay. You can swim, right?"

"Yes…?" Alex looked uncertain.

"Well now's a great time to learn."

* * *

><p>Alex had said it would take fifteen minutes. In fact, it only took ten. Jason was staked out near the entrance, watching the Supermutant patrols. None of them seemed to have noticed the lack of activity around Project Purity, but he had chosen to err on the side of caution. If the mutants noticed, the vulnerable scribes would at least have some warning.<p>

He heard the young woman approaching long before she tapped his shoulder. She was moving intelligently enough, darting from shadow to shadow, and always keeping one eye on the patrols. Jason found himself mildly impressed. Mildly.

"We're ready." She whispered.

Jason nodded and followed her back into the project, giving the mutant hordes one last glare. Alex had spread out his schematics on a table in the basement of Project Purity. The scribes were all gathered around him, staring down at the complicated blueprints. He began to explain his plan as soon as he was sure he had everyone's attention.

"Alright, here's the plan: We're going to Sabotage Project Purity again. Pretty much doing the same thing the saboteurs did three months ago except instead of blowing open the fuel reservoir, we'll be rupturing a pipe on the surface." He began to circle and mark off different points on the diagram. "I already know what we need to shut off, and in which order. But it'll require careful timing." He stared around the room. "Each of you will have a part to play. But this'll require careful timing."

"How will you guarantee the pipe will rupture exactly where you want it to?" Jason asked.

"That's where you come in." Alex said. "I can't guarantee a darn thing. But you could put the odds in our favor by wreaking the pipe wherever you want it to burst. Loosen some bolts, or blow it up or something. Just weaken it."

"Will do." Jason frowned "There's a hundred pipes out there, Alex. How will I know which-"

"Way ahead of you." Alex interrupted happily. "I'm not going to explain how the water gets moved. Just find the pipe closest to Rivet City. The drawback is that we'll have to shut off the discharge pipes to build up the pressure."

"Drawback?" a scribe asked. "Why is that a drawback?"

"The muties'll notice, Maya." Another explained impatiently.

"As soon as the fountain appears, you all rush east." Jason told them. "I'll keep the mutants occupied. Can you all swim?"

There was a general murmur of affirmation.

"You realize you'll be trapped in the middle of a mutant horde and a cloud of blinding gas, right?" Alex asked.

"I'll be fine." Jason told him.

"But-"

"I'll be fine."

* * *

><p>"Commander Danvers?"<p>

Lana stopped rubbing her eyes, and looked up at the friendly-faced security officer. His arm was outstretched and he was holding a cup of coffee for her. She took it without a word, listening to the gunfire and the screaming of the wounded, most of whom were spread out on the tables of Gary's Galley. She had to listen to it. There was no way to block them out.

Angelina and Diego were doing their best to assist the stressed Doctor Preston in treating the wounded. Gary himself had been killed in the first half hour of the siege. He'd stood side by side with Mister Lopez and held the drawbridge long enough for those trapped on the wrong side to get to safety. Both of them had promptly been canonized by Father Clifford, guaranteeing that if anyone made it out of this alive, their deeds would be remembered.

Clifford had gone further, though. He had allied with Preston in organizing the humanitarian side of the siege, rationing food and water, and helping the wounded when they could. Almost everyone in the city was handling the crisis rather well, given the fact that the mutant invasion had come out of the blue. Danvers had had a long talk with Clifford about their supplies, and they had calculated that Rivet City had four months before their supplies began to grow really strained. That was more than long enough for the Brotherhood to get down and rescue them.

Though she was privately worried that they hadn't heard a thing from the Brotherhoood since the fall of Project Purity. She wasn't about to let it show.

"How are we doing, Joey?" she asked, picking a direction. She lead him up the stairs of the city's Security headquarters, partly walking because it something to do, and partly because at the very top of Rivet City was a crows' nest lookout, which provided an excellent view of the siege.

"Fine, Ma'am." The man reported. "We've been keeping the muties away from the walls. Took down a behemoth half an hour ago."

"Keep on it." She said. "Don't get cozy."

"No ma'am." The security guard said grimly.

They reached the crow's nest and stepped out. Half a dozen snipers had taken up position at the railing, and were picking off any targets the bright moonlight or streams of tracer rounds revealed. The siege raging below them cast an entrancing play of ever changing light and shadow, though the pace of the battle was slowing; night was good for neither party, as the darkness hid targets and resulted in too much wasted ammunition.

As she watched, Danvers found herself missing Harkness. The man always seemed to have the answers, and though she knew her worried troops were looking to her, she felt desperately uneasy with the weight of her responsibility. Rivet City's defense was her job, true. But no one and nothing had prepared her for the sheer number of muties.

"Keep your eyes out." she ordered. "I don't want any of them sneaking around the sides. If they do, pick'em off!"

"Yes ma'am." The troops chorused.

She needn't have worried though; oddly, the mutants seemed more intent on keeping the humans from escaping than they did on entering themselves. After the first ours of the tactic, the battle had turned into a siege, and the mutants seemed to lose interest in bridging the moat. The hourly messengers had observed the mutants closely, and reported mutants lifting, carrying and burning sacks of unknown contents. They were working hard at something behind the frontlines, and the question of exactly what and why worried Danvers more than any other.

A roar echoed from below, and another behemoth emerged from the ruins.

"Christ…" Danvers murmured quietly, watching the creature lope forward. Its arms were held out protectively, a shield against the defender's gunfire.

"We can't take this…" Joey muttered grimly.

"Carry the order down to the flight deck!" Danvers barked. "I want that thing brought down before it tears into the ship!"

At that very moment an ungodly noise shredded the night, drawing the attentions of all combatants towards Project Purity. A fountain of fresh water was rising high into the air, climbing tent feet. Then it pushed to twenty and rocketed past thirty, the wind catching it and spreading the entire southern point of the capital wasteland in a cold spray which soaked through clothing and drenched both sides.

"Wonderful…" Joey murmured to her. "There goes our fresh water."

But Danvers was too busy listening to the sudden rush of horrible noises from the mutant camp. Guttural cries of pain and agony serenaded the cheering defenders as the entire mutant camp was engulfed in an acrid cloud of white smoke.

"The hell…?"

"What happened?"

Danvers stared over the edge of the precipice into the boiling cloud of smoke. "What's going on down there?"

Mutants began to emerge in streams, smoking and steaming. Screaming and flailing at themselves as if on fire, they threw themselves recklessly into the Potomac, which only seemed to make things worse. The water beside the wrecked hull had turned into a frothing, churning, seething mass of dying mutants, even as more of them threw themselves in.

"Get us off the flight deck!" Danvers ordered, watching the smoke rise. It was obviously doing horrible things to the mutants, and she wasn't about to risk her own forces.

"Yes Ma'am!" one of the snipers saluted and disappeared, his comrades staying behind to observe the carnage in stunned silence.

"Who's that?" Joey demanded suddenly, pointing at Project purity.

They all followed his gaze left, just past the cloud of burning mist. She could make out the tiny silhouette of a lone figure, sprinting across the open ground on the western edge of the mutant encampment, towards the bow of the ship. Several mutants lucky enough to be caught outside the burning cloud had noticed, and were opening fire. The behemoth had spotted the figure too, roaring in agony as it waded through the chest-high acidic smoke, trying to reach its target.

"Is that…?" Joey asked.

Danvers nodded, feeling both exhilarated and terrified, for they had both made out the Lone Wanderer's brown duster and black assault rifle.

"Cavalry's here, boys!" one guard declared, prompting another round of cheers.

"It's the Wanderer!"

* * *

><p>Jason dodged left, feeling a shot riffle through the air just past his right ear. Normally he would have returned fire, but he was a little busy. The behemoth was the worrying factor, and it was rapidly catching up to him, giant footsteps shaking the earth. He heard the cheering defenders on the deck of Rivet City, followed by the crack of sniper rifles. Immediately, the small arms fire ceased, and Jason sent them a private offer of thanks.<p>

He reached the bow of the ship and immediately began to climb as fast as he could, finding purchase in the uneven plating and rusted holes. He hadn't gone more than ten feet up before a roar behind him told him the Behemoth had arrived. Acting quickly, he reached out with his left hand and swung free as a fist the size of a bus stop plunged into the side of the wreck, right where he'd been moments before. He kept climbing as the enormous mutant drew back its arm for another strike. Jason whipped out his pistol and emptied the clip at the mutant's face, causing it to recoil and buying him precious seconds to gain more height until suddenly he was out of reach.

The mutant roared and charged at the side of the ship, tearing gaping holes in the side as it tried to reach him. Jason kept climbing, even as his footing was slowly ripped away by the mutant. At last, through sheer determination, it gained a solid handhold and pulled itself up, planting its feet in the shredded plating and climbing after him,

Jason reached the summit first and pulled himself over the top, pausing to look back down at the mutant. The damned thing was too big! He could take it, sure. But he was out of grenades, having used the last of them to weaken the pipes at Project Purity. Trapped at the top of a plateau, armed only with a 10mm pistol and a silenced assault rifle, and a behemoth slowly closing in?

Not an ideal situation.

As a matter of fact, as he backed away from the edge, Jason was hard pressed to find a point where he'd been worse prepared. Stepping out of the vault, perhaps? He needed either a lot more ammunition, or some heavy ordinance.

Then his eye fell on the pile of abandoned jetfighters, and he wondered if any of them were still operational. He'd only need a few seconds, after all. If they were anything like the cars scattered throughout the capital wasteland, then he had all the ordinance he'd ever need.

* * *

><p>The super mutant behemoth crested the edge of the flight deck , roaring in triumph. Its right hand slammed into the metal, fingers gouging deep trenches as it pulled itself over the top. It rose, snarling as it dug its left hand in, its weight causing the entire deck to crumple. It looked up, searching for the tiny human target, and spotted the man. The human was standing atop one of the old-world machines, smirking.<p>

The behemoth roared at it and planted a foot against the hull, pushing itself further. The human reached down into the old-world machine, which started to rumbled and roar louder than the behemoth. The he looked back up, threw the mutant a nonchalant salute, and vanished into the night.

The Behemoth growled and clambered further, just managing to get a knee over the top before the machine emitted a crashing bellow, fire streaming out behind it. Spinning wildly across the deck, it flashed towards the mutant at an impossible speed, hitting it in the stomach and launching them both clear across the battlefield. A few moments later the night was bathed in nuclear fire.

* * *

><p><strong>Okay… so maybe the jetfighter was a little over the top…<strong>

… **But so AWSOME! Coolness factor wins out. I'm glad this story is at the point where I can do that, and still have it all work (or maybe I'm just getting over confidant –if so, let me know.)**

**But I see too many stories on this site try to start at this point without the character and world-building first. It usually falls flat. I hope this one didn't.**

**Note: when I finished this chapter, I had 'How You Like Me Now' by The Heavy playing in the background. Didn't even realize it. Very fitting though.**


	17. Chapter 17

Mutatis Mutandis 17

Brutus laid his head in his palm and sighed. "How many?"

At the foot of his throne, Rust and Argus, the two generals both shifted uneasily, aware of how angry Brutus could be sometimes. Their Master was often prone to fits of violent rage, and they had often wondered if the stealthboys he used to use had anything to do with it. He was an imposing sight, clothed in full armour, with the torches behind him lighting up his throne room, and throwing his face into shadow. The ceiling hung far above their heads, hidden in darkness, but presenting them with the feeling that they were bearing witness to an endless night.

"Two hundred and seventeen brothers." Rust reported quietly.

"And two behemoths." Argus added. "Counted with the casualties we already had, that's three-quarters of our Rivet City forces gone."

Their king sat silently, eyes shut as he tried to calm himself. His head was supported loosely by his left hand, but his right was gripping the throne's concrete arm so tight that cracks were beginning to appear.

"In one stroke," Brutus said, "Wiping out all of our quicklime in the process. How did this happen?"

"The Scientists soaked the place in fresh water." Argus winced. "Our brothers burned to death."

Brutus growled. "And how did the scientists escape?"

Rust and Argus exchanged a Look. Neither of them were looking forward to imparting this particular scrap of news. They weren't entirely sure one of them wasn't about to die. "A few Brothers said they saw the Lone Wanderer there."

Brutus bellowed in rage, rising to his feet and ripping the arm off of his throne as he went. He hurled it at the far wall, causing both of his generals to duck. The chunk of concrete exploded as it hit, filling the space behind them with dust. Twisted rebar clattered to the floor as the mutant king roared. "TRAITOR!"

He stomped down the uneven staircase and brushed past them, pacing furiously across his throne room. "Burke betrayed us, Brothers! He told us the Wanderer had been dealt with. Clearly he lied."

"We should attack him." Rust suggested, relief pouring off of him. "Teach him a lesson."

Brutus halted in mid stride and spun on his heel, regarding his general with a cold glare. "And bring the wrath of Burke's master down upon us? Burke is just a scout. A Frumentarius. Do you think we would survive the Legions themselves? You saw the abominations as well as I did. You think we lost too many yesterday?" he scoffed. "No. Burke is untouchable. We must deal with the Wanderer ourselves…" he paused to think, then pointed at Argus. "This was your failure. You will correct it."

"How?" Argus demanded. "We cannot beat the Wanderer in open combat. And we've lost too many brothers trying."

"So find another way." Brutus snapped, pulling his sword form the sheath on his back. "Get creative! Use our untapped resources! Find another way or I will hang you from the top of Project Purity as an example to the rest."

Argus nodded and hurried away, his only desire to put as much distance between himself and Brutus as possible.

The King turned and pointed to Rust. "Send a messenger to the new GNR garrison and tell them to meet us at Fort Bannister. We're going to pay Jabsco a visit."

Rust frowned, "I thought you said-"

"Burke is untouchable." Brutus reiterated. "But perhaps we can scare his Talon Company away. Keep them from doing any more damage. Tell me, Brother, do you know what the term 'bluffing' means?"

* * *

><p>Something slimy and wet slithered across Jason's face, forcing wakefulness upon him, and making him jerk backwards. Dogmeat licked him again and whined, backing away slightly.<p>

Three days. Three whole days had passed since the battle at Rivet City. The first thing Jason had done since leaping off the bow of Rivet City was attempt to find Alex Dargon. But there was no sign of the scientist, nor of the scribes traveling with him. The facts were not in his favor, but Jason still held out hope. Perhaps they were bunkered down somewhere underground.

It would have to be underground. The entire south eastern corner of the capital wasteland, from the Jury Street Metro Station to the Cryslus Building -both of which were being utilized as Brutus' forward observation posts- was teeming with supermutants. Jason had wiped out both observation posts twice in as many days, not to mention several patrols sniffing around Megaton.

Fort Independence was empty, save for a large pile of Outcast bodies. Not enough to account for all of them, but wherever the Outcasts had run off to, they had taken some heavy losses.

In fact, after their initial push, the Mutants seemed to be moving forward at a fairly sedate pace. On one level, Jason could understand why; all the greatest threats to their success had been eliminated in one masterful stroke, leaving the rest of the Wasteland vulnerable to be claimed at their leisure. They appeared to be more interested in consolidation and strengthening rather than outward expansion. Or perhaps his victory at Rivet City had made them more cautious. Either way, there was certainly a long delay between their first push, and the coming attempt to take the next ring of settlements.

Jason winced; Bigtown was on that list, alongside Arefu, though the latter could certainly take shelter in the nearby metro station. Neither, however, were as important to the Capital Wasteland's survival as Fort Bannister. Accepting that his responsibilities lay with Jackrum and the Talon Company had hurt, but Bigtown's entire population could be counted on the fingers of a blind butcher's hand, whereas Jason knew that the Talon Company was probably the last hope for any organized human resistance, and come morning, he fully intended to march to Jackrum and start organizing.

All in all, though it could have been far worse, the situation were not looking good. Jason had not gone an hour in the past seventy-two without firing his weapon. The mutants had set a tight net, and no matter where he turned, there always seemed to be a mutant patrol lying ni wait. It was as if they were herding him. Testing him. He would have run out of bullets long ago were he not an expert scavenger, and at that very moment, he was hiding in the Fairfax ruins, trying desperately to catch some sleep.

Dogmeat whined at him imploringly.

Jason yawned and rubbed his eyes. he said, "I already fed you. Twice is enough."

The dog padded over to the broken window and whined again. Jason rose to his feet and followed, staying low in case there was a mutant patrol nearby.

Morning had not yet dawned on the capital wasteland, and clouds blotted out the moon. However Jason had excellent night vision, and from his second story perch he could make out the playground across the street, and the empty wasteland beyond. He scanned it carefully, looking for the telltale hulking green of Supermutant forces.

He was hiding in a raider outpost on the northern edge of the Fairfax ruins. He had very carefully chosen it because of two things: its unparalleled view of the open wasteland, and the turret which some very intelligent raider had mounted on a section of ceiling near the broken window. Most of the second story roof was missing, save for the small area, and the position gave Jason an excellent view of the north and the west, where he could see any mutants trying to strike out in either direction.

Yet the ground before him was populated by nothing but dust devils.

"There's nothing there." He muttered, scratching his companion behind the ears. The Dog's hair was coarse and oily; it had not been washed in several months, and was probably infested with fleas, but there was nothing Jason could do about it at the moment.

In the playground beyond, the swings began to rock back and forth in the gentle breeze. Beside Jason, Dogmeat began to growl. The Wanderer frowned, heeding the dog's warning, and leaned forward to search the playground a little more closely.

Something was off. He could feel it in his gut. After a few seconds he realized it was the swings. They weren't moving in tandem. Jason raised the Perforator and scanned them through the scope. If they'd been pushed by the breeze, they'd all move in roughly the same way, swinging in unison. Yet they were swinging in seemingly random directions. Back and forth, side to side, occasionally crashing into each other, being pushed in a dozen different directions.

At that moment, the moon broke free of the clouds, and Jason caught the shimmer. It was one he recognized instantly. He'd seen in all too often, every time he activated his own stealth suit. A feeling of cold, spite-filled admiration swept through him. _Stealthboys! The bastards!_

The playground lit up as dozens of cloaked supermutants peppered his building with 5.56mm rounds, forcing him to leap backwards, pulling Dogmeat with him. Shards of plaster and splinters of wood rained down on them as the cloaked mutant hunters shredded his refuge. The floor sagged a few inches as the streams of lead sawed through a few vital supports, and though Jason couldn't hear anything over the sounds of gunfire, he could feel the sudden shifts and drops which told him that the second story floor was giving way.

The air around him was so rapidly filling with dust that it was nearly impossible to see, but he forced himself forward, trying to desperately keep hold of the struggling animal. A grenade clattered across his vison, and Jason let go of his companion, making a mad dash for the small green sphere before it blew them both to hell. He managed to toss it back, but not before the dog slipped away down the stairs. Jason heard a yelp, and the cries of angry Supermutants, but the incoming fire did not lessen.

Four more grenades landed around him, and Jason sprinted frantically for the open across from him. He rolled over the sill half a second before the grenades blew up, and landed heavily on the shrub-encrusted floor of the narrow alley. The ruined detritus of the former house buried him, but he shrugged off the rotten timbers and sections of drywall, and fought down the alleyway, desperately trying to shake away the dull pain and disorientation.

Thankfully, the dust cloud caused by the demolished building had obscured his escape, and bought him a few precious moments of peace. Enough for him to make his way to the edge of the alleyway. He found himself on a ledge overlooking the central street of the Fairfax ruins. The small town had a tiered arrangement, with clusters of buildings and alleyways at differing heights.

Now that he knew what to look for, he could see dozens of the shimmering shapes moving around the alleyways and across the street. The net was closing in, but he wasn't too worried. He smiled down at a manhole cover. He'd explored Fairfax before quite a few times. It was a favored Raider den, and he suspected that the supermutants, even if they had worked out how to use stealthboys, didn't know about the sewer system.

* * *

><p>Jason dropped into the darkness and felt immediately at home. This was his world. His game now. He melted into the shadows and disappeared down the hall, paying close attention to the sounds and deep shadows all around him. The smell of ancient sewage was disgusting, but he adjusted quickly. It was nothing he wasn't used to putting up with.<p>

A part of him was worried for Dogmeat. The poor animal had been a good companion. A loyal one. One of the few, though he reminded himself that grief would have to wait. There was a war on.

He heard guttural laughter and the stomp of heavy feet, and ducked into a handy alcove across from a maintenance door. A gang of four Supermutants shouldered their way down the narrow hall, moving slowly as they swept the area, searching for him. He darted out as the last one passed, and opened fire, spraying the Supermutant's back with silenced rounds. The creature fell, gurgling. The next two in line turned in shock, and had just enough time to register his presence before their blood painted the ceiling. His final shot plunged straight through the forehead of the leading mutant, and chunks of his skull skittered down the length of the hallway, leaving long thin bloody trails.

Jason paused a moment and let out a breath, watching the smoke rise form the tip of his silenced assault rifle. He lowered it slowly, just in time to hear a growl from his right. From the very alcove he'd taken shelter in. Where before the shadows had been completely flat and smooth, they now shimmered, morphing into a fifth mutant. This one was coloured in navy blue and streaks of dark grey. Its yellow eyes surveyed him with alien menace, even as its right hand clamped down on the barrel of the Perforator, tearing it from his grasp.

Its left snapped out and snatched him up, rushing them both through the maintenance door on the opposite side of the hall. Jason winced as the new creature bashed him through the metal, but he fought for his combat knife and jabbed it in the stealthy mutant's side. The thing frenzied and ran them both through a set of rusted railing and over the edge of a long two-story drop. The room was large. A staircase circled the inner wall, descending into a deeper, flooded section of the sewer system. The two combatants arced across the gap, and Jason's back hit the opposite edge of the staircase, momentarily crushed against it by the weight of the supermutant. However only a moment was needed for his back to break. Then there was another, shorter drop.

His legs went numb, but of far more concern was the cold sewer water rapidly closing over his face. Jason stretched out his arms, thrashing wildly through the murky green, searching for a handhold.

Mutant hands grasped his neck, forcing him down further, and no matter where his felt, he couldn't find his knife, and the world was spinning too fast for him to keep up. Water poured into his lungs, smothering him. Jason held his breath, ignoring his own reflexes, and tried to concentrate. His back was healing, he knew. He'd kept himself above 400 Rads ever since hiding Three Dog. But he needed a few precious seconds for the process to complete, and the black mutant was giving him no quarter.

His hand closed around the knobbly surface of a fragmentation grenade at his belt. Jason pulled the pin, counted three seconds, and tossed it into the air as far as he could in his half-dead state. The chamber was suddenly filled with harsh light. The air and water seemed to compress, making his ears pop. He felt a sudden stinging in his ribcage where the shrapnel had embedded itself. Mutant blood dribbled into the pool, mixing with the water which was rapidly suffocating him, and he was pushed to the bottom of the pool as the dead weight of the mutant corpse landed on top of him. His legs wouldn't respond, and his arms had lost their strength. His last sight as the murky waters closed in to darkness was a pair of yellow eyes, watching from the catwalk above.

* * *

><p><strong>My apologies for the short chapter. Hopefully the awsomeness of the next one will make up for it.<strong>

**The house where Jason was hiding at the beginning of his scene exists, as does the playground across from it, and the manhole cover at the end of the alleyway. I do my best to choreograph all the fight scenes in the series. I map them out in the game world. I think it pays off. **

**The cloaked mutants/ Nightkin were actually supposed to appear in the citadel battle, but I decided to save them for this. Somehow it works better when they're meeting stealth with stealth. I also like the idea of Jason not actually being very good at fighting stealthy supermutants. He wouldn't be used to it, and I know that despite all my time stealthing Fallout 3, FNV nightkin are still able to sneak right up and bash me in the head.**

**Alright, so if you have any interest in following this story from here, I would highly advise you to reread all the new sections with Brutus. A few rather significant changes have been made. I added a few characters to fill out the plot a little, and add a little background to Brutus and the Supermutants. Not sure if it helps, but it's certainly different than he was before. Part of my problem was that I couldn't' see how he could possibly run the entire operation by himself.**

**Anywho, re-read them and let me know what you think. The ones changed so far are 5, 7, and 9. I have yet to touch the scene with Fawkes, but that's coming too.**

*****SPOILER ALERT*** ***SPOILER ALERT*** **

**As a sidenote to those who are really worried, and can't stand not knowing…**

…**Dogmeat is still alive. I have no intention of killing off that dog.**


	18. Chapter 18

Mutatis Mutandis 18

The vault had been overtaken within a matter of minutes. In two, the invaders had taken the main level. In five, they had the Overseer's office and Vault Security headquarters. For all the preparations the young woman had claimed they had tried to make, the Vault had folded up like a wet towel. Their leader, made up of the figurehead, or 'Overseer', had been locked up in the cell. The rest had simply dropped to their knees. They didn't have much choice; the average wasteland child knew more about violence than they did.

The Vault's affluence sickened her. Smooth, warm, clean beds. Showers and food whenever they wanted. Standard education. Entire archives full of movies and media the Brotherhood had only dreamt of…

And purified water, whenever and wherever they felt like drinking it.

The Vault, despite the cramped corridors, was a paradise. And its residents were clueless. The civilians were like sheep. Blind, ignorant, docile sheep. Oblivious to the outside world and the everyday risks associated with living there. Only one of them, named Susie Mack, had shown any sign of understanding. The young woman was only a little younger than Sarah herself. She had apparently done some scouting around the D.C. outskirts, and at least knew her way around a weapon. But the rest? Clueless.

The thought had struck Sarah that Jason had grown up here. How ironic it was that he, above all others, all the wasteland natives, had transformed into the Lone Wanderer.

Anger surged through her yet again. Damn him! And his fucking code! She hated life in the vault, but no matter how many threats, how much time and effort she had put into getting the door controls repaired, there was nothing anyone could do, not vault dweller, nor scribe. The door was shut, and Sarah knew that one day soon, she'd have to grapple with the very real possibility that she'd be spending the rest of her life in the cramped bunker, but at that moment, she was refusing to accept it as fact.

Instead she'd put her time into exploring the Vault which Jason had called Home. She had visited his room. It was smaller than the jail cell, and had two beds with a trunk in the corner. A picture sat on a low shelf. It showed a young Jason with a BB gun strapped to his back, and James Howlett at his shoulder, smiling proudly.

There were other mementoes scattered around the room. A small cardboard children's book with the words 'Your SPECIAL!' emblazoned on the cover. A small teddybear, a toy Nuka-Cola truck, and a few books. Yet the only time Sarah completely felt sure she was looking at one of Jason's belongings was when she stared down at the red bandana she'd taken to carrying around with her.

She wasn't sure entirely why she kept it. It wasn't as if she was anything but furious at the man. Yet she knew he was doing his best to save the wasteland, and having it around at all times seemed somehow to be a show of support. A way to fight alongside him even though she couldn't.

Either way, scanning through his room had left her more curious than ever about his past. The tiny apartment seemed so far removed from the Lone Wanderer who had locked them all away that she had not even feel guilty about snooping through it. She knew that the Wanderer wouldn't care. Jason might have, at some point. But the Wanderer wouldn't.

Yet she also knew that eventually her wanderings and wonderings would lead her to one place and one place only. The one link she was able to confirm. The one person who knew it all and Sarah knew that the brunette would be just as curious as she was.

So she found herself peering through the vault jail's narrow window. Sarah was carrying no sidearm. Just two glasses of fresh water.

The young woman was still curled up on the cot, her arms around her knees. She'd been kept away from the other vault residents. The cell had at least one armed wastelander guard at all times. Rothchild, Glade, and Simms had banded together to form a provisional government of sorts, taking advice from Susie Mack, and the Vault's resident teacher. It appeared that the Vault blamed the brunette for the sudden invasion, and Sarah had ordered her locked away as much for her own protection as for the wasteland's coup attempt, and the Brunette was to stay there until things had calmed down.

"You going to go in, or just sit there and stare?" the guard asked. Sarah glanced at him. He was a relatively pale man, an unusual occurrence in the wasteland. He had red hair and a roughly groomed goatee. An occasional nervous tick spoke volumes about the man's past. He either was, or at some point had been, a drug addict. Jet, probably.

"Open it up." Sarah ordered.

The man stared at her. He said, "Say Please."

"I'm sorry, Please open the door." Sarah replied, not in the mood to open up an argument. She had forgotten that most of the Wastelanders stuck in the vault with her were not members of the Brotherhood of Steel, and not bound by their codes.

The man turned to the console beside him, and a few moments later, the door slid open. Being careful not to spill a single drop of the precious liquid, Sarah stepped through and looked to the brunette. The young woman had raised her head, but otherwise hadn't moved.

She was dressed in a blue and yellow vault suit, of the same sort Jason had been wearing the first time Sarah had ever seen him, though his had been altered. A shoulder pad had been added, as well as a few other items, transforming it into a set of light armour.

"Here to kill me?" the woman asked blankly, though there was an undercurrent in her tone. Hope, perhaps? Or acceptance. Either way, she was obviously in a very bad state, and Sarah felt a small amount of compassion for her.

The door slid shut, as Sarah shook her head. "No."

"Oh." The woman lowered her head, resting on her knees.

Sarah glanced around the room and spotted a chair which had been planted near a set of lockers. She set her glasses down on the floor, dragged the chair over and took a seat in front of the brunette.

"Your name is Amata." She said, proffering a glass.

"Yep." The woman did not even look up.

Sarah said, "Tell me about Jason."

The woman's grip around her knees tightened until the knuckles were white, but aside from that, she gave no indication she had even heard the request.

"Look, stop moping." Sarah ordered. "For you information, he screwed us both. I'm locked in here, just as much as you are!"

"I can't tell you." The woman told her miserably. "I obviously don't know him anymore."

"But you did." Sarah prompted.

Amata looked up with tears in her eyes, and Sarah was struck by the young woman's beauty. The men and women of the capital wasteland lived hard lives, and the stress showed in sunburnt skin, wrinkled faces and hard eyes. Amata's skin was smooth and unblemished; her eyes innocent. Almost childlike, in a way.

"He was my best friend! More than that! He was… we were going to… This is his home! _How could he do this to us?!_"

"Anything that might benefit the Capital Wasteland at any cost to himself or anyone outside the Capital Wasteland. That's his Modus Operandi." Sarah explained. "This Vault was an expendable asset."

Amata's mouth, which had been hanging open up until that point, abruptly snapped shut. "Expendable? It's his home!"

"Was." Sarah corrected. She frowned slightly. "Do you even know what's going on up there? I mean… have you ever seen a Supermutant? Do you know what that is? Do you even care?"

"What does it matter? This is Vault 101!" Amata declared. "His home! He grew up here. His dad-"

"-Is dead."

For the second time in as many minutes, Amata's mouth dropped open.

"…Has been for four years." Sarah told her.

"Oh my god…" the woman's hand covered her mouth, stifling her look of shocked horror. "How?"

"Died." Sarah elaborated further, shaking the glass slightly. A drop of the precious cool water splashed over the edge and landed on her hand. "Giving this to the Wasteland. Pure water. I can't believe it in here… up there it's the most important thing... But here… you _bath _in it! Unbelievable!"

"We always have." Amata said, frowning. "What happened to James?"

"He was killed by the Enclave when they tried to take control of his Purifier. Jason was there. He watched his dad die."

"Why didn't he… Susie didn't… no one… no one told me."

"What, no one handed you reports?" Sarah asked. "Or did you just not read them. Perhaps you were too busy bathing."

Amata ignored her. "But I talked to him. When the vault reopened. We let him back in. I asked for his help…"

"What did he say?"

The woman let out a depressed bark of laughter, and finally took the glass Sarah had been offering. She took a sip before speaking. "Not much. But he gave me this look. The same one his dad would give us when we were complaining about Brotch's homework. Like: 'You think your problems matter?'."

"They don't." Sarah observed shortly, sipping her own glass. Snippets of her nightmare at Point Lookout flashed before her eyes. Small moments of fleeting terror and the overwhelming feeling of helplessness. "It is so much bigger than you know."

"My world isn't."

"Jason's is. And I'm going to ask again: Do you know what a Supermutant is?"

"Big green monsters." Amata said. "Susie saw some from a distance the last time she was out. She told me about them."

"Yeah? Well they're everywhere up there. They've wiped out most of the Capital Wasteland. Jason put us in here as a last resort. He wanted to make sure someone survived. There's a second apocalypse happening as we speak." Struck by a sudden surge of anger, she tossed her half-full glass to the floor, spilling water across the perforated panels. There was a gentle hum and a whistling noise as the vault's auto-vac system kicked in, whisking away the liquid to be recycled and pumped back into the system.

Sarah rose to her feet, her hand closing around Jason's Bandana. "While you were bathing in that water, my brothers, and my father and everything I ever knew and fought for was being torn apart! All my friends, my family, they're all gone. And _my_ home is rubble. And you don't care just so long as this fucking vault stays untouched! And Jason's out there trying to put it all back together. He's the only one that can. You could have helped! We needed help! But you stayed closed! You deserved this!"

Amata looked up at her, hints of defiance creeping into her expression. "You want me to apologize?"

Sarah's words came tumbling out faster than she could keep track. "I want you to understand that this world doesn't revolve around you! I want you to understand why he did this! I want to fight! I want that door open! I need to…" she stopped. "I want to kill them for what they did. I want to watch the fucking muties die and he stole that from me!"

Amata watched her with an indifferent expression, and Sarah knew that nothing she had said had stuck. All of her words had simply been brushed away. The vault dweller said, "Why did you come talk to me? Did you actually want something, or did you just want someone to yell at? Let me tell you something, I have it worse than you!"

"You wha-"

"Shut up!" Amata ordered, rising to her feet. She was a few inches taller than Sarah, but it felt like a few feet. "You have it worse than me! No, I don't know what it's like out there because I've never been out there! This is my home. My entire world. If you step out the door you can still rebuild! Me?" she gestured at the windows, "Do you honestly think anyone in here is ever going to trust me again? Do you think they'll want me around anymore? The moment you leave, I'll be thrown out! Just for trusting somebody! Just for trying to do my best!"

Sarah crossed her arms in defiance and smiled wickedly.

She said, "Well I guess now you know how Jason felt."

* * *

><p>It was pain which forced Jason awake. He groaned, feeling sharp chunks of concrete digging into the small of his back. He reached up and rubbed his face, opening his eyes and discovering that he was in pitch darkness. He waved his hands in front of his face, trying desperately to make out the shapes.<p>

What had happened? There had been a black Supermutant. A stealthy supermutant, but that was a contradiction in terms…

It had tackled him and then… water?

A feeling of emptiness stole through him, and he cursed himself as he ran events back further. Dogmeat was gone. Probably dead. The animal had always charged in first, one of the many reasons Jason always left him behind. There was no room for planning or strategy. Yet the dog had probably saved his life.

He sat up, taking stock. The ground was hard. Tiled floor covered in debris. Add that to the ringing silence, and he knew immediately that he was in a subway station. He was still wearing his leather duster. All his clothing was intact, though his grenades and sidearm were missing. Feeling blindly, he found his assault rifle lying beside him.

It didn't make sense; how did he get into a subway station? He'd been trapped underwater.

Someone had pulled him out. Whether it was a rescue or not remained to be seen. He reached over to the Pipboy on his left arm and flicked the light on. His immediate area was bathed in a bright glow, but it spread enough light that he could make out the enormously bulky figure towering over him, just beyond the pale glow.

A voice echoed through the darkness, though Jason couldn't make out any facial movement. The sound was canny and harsh, having been recycled through speakers, and Jason realized that the insectoid curves were in fact the plates of an enormous and exotic set of Power Armour.

"Took you long enough." The figure said. "Thought I was going to have to fight this whole war by myself."

Its eyes lit up, pale ovals glowing green and yellow, the sight prompting one word to score painful gashes across Jason's muddled brain.

_Enclave!_

Rage filled him. The Wanderer's rifle snapped upwards, and he pulled the trigger, his crosshairs centered between the glowing orbs. There was no rewarding kickback. No silenced shots. Just a pathetic click. It was at that moment, Jason realized the gun was lighter than it should have been…

The figure's arm moved and one of Jason's assault rifle magazines landed in the circle.

"Try it now." the figure suggested dryly. As Jason loaded his weapon, it spoke further, saying: "I was going to put your safety on too, but I didn't want to embarrass you… much."

Jason rose to his feet, the circle of light spreading, and revealing the brown and black armoured exoskeleton. The giant stood about seven feet tall, with broad shoulders and a muscular physique visible even underneath the armour.

"Gonna try and shoot me again?" it asked.

Instead, Jason moved quickly, flicking off his Pipboy light, and dousing them both in darkness. It was his arena now, and the brief moments of light had given him a good idea of the layout.

He silently moved backwards, watching those glowing eyes, and crouched beside a broken escalator, leveling his rifle at the figure's head. He pulled the trigger, feeling the familiar kick against his shoulder. The three bullets flew straight and true, hitting the armoured man in the center of the forehead. All three shots promptly bounced off and ricocheted into the walls and ceiling.

"Seriously?" the figure asked. The power-armoured giant sounded bored. Even through the speakers, his dry sarcasm was palpable. "Oh no! Darkness! Your greatest ally! Whatever shall I do?"

Floodlights blazed, bathing every inch of the underground chamber in swelteringly bright light, blinding the Wanderer. He crawled backwards, hearing the pneumatic hiss, whine, and clanking of the power-armour as the figure neared him. The purple spots in front of his eyes cleared just in time to see his opponent's enormous palm close over his face.

"Come'ere, you slippery little ninja!" the figure ordered, picking the Wanderer up by the face and slamming him into the side of the escalator. The Perforator was ripped away, and Jason heard it clatter to the floor. "I'm running out of patience. This is the second time I've pulled you out of the fire, and I'm about ready to pack it in."

Jason tried to speak, but smothered beneath the armoured gauntlet; he could barely breathe, let alone respond. He was busy enough trying to hold himself up and prevent his neck from taking his body's full weight.

"I know why you shot me." The figure said, oblivious to his kicks and frantic scrambling. "And I'm as much Enclave as you are a Regulator." It tugged at his duster. "Alright?" it paused, then added. "Tap the gauntlet once if you understand."

Jason slapped the figure's forearm, and it dropped him, and he collapsed into a crumpled, coughing heap. The armoured man set both hands on his hips and continued. "Listen up, cause we don't have all day, and there's a lot to do. This whole attack- are you trying to _run_?"

It bent over, snatching at Jason, who was trying to crawl underneath the escalator. The figure gripped him by the ankles and dragged him backwards until they were both clear of the escalator. Then it spun, the armour's augmented strength allowing him to swinging Jason around into a concrete pillar. It dropped him again and planted a crushingly heavy boot on his chest.

"Just hold still and listen for a second. I don't take bullshit. You try this again, and I'll hang you upside down by the ankles until you decide to behave. Even if that takes a few days. Understand, Wanderer?"

"I have a name!" Jason snarled through clenched teeth. Pain raced through his shoulder where he had impacted with the unyielding concrete pillar.

"Yeah. I know. 'Wanderer'. It's what people call you."

"My father called me Jason."

"And mine called me Narg." The giant responded. "…can't say I ever forgave him for it. Not till the enclave killed him, and kidnapped my entire village."

They stared at each other, Jason's slack-jawed gaze centered on the armoured helmet. He couldn't recall the enclave ever kidnapping a village. Not in the capital wasteland, anyway…

The figure bent down, bringing its face closer to his level. "And then I did what people like you and I do best, Wanderer. The same thing we're going to have to do now, if you want your wasteland to survive."

* * *

><p><strong>So I'm a little worried that the SarahAmata conversations are going to play out like the Miranda Lawson/Hannah Shepard chapters from The Fourth Option. But explaining Jason's background does serve a purpose in this story, and hopefully it'll pay off later.**

**If any of you have any ideas as to which parts of Jason's story they should go over, please let me know either in or review or preferably in a private message.**

…

**And about Jason's scene, I squee'd. Just a little. Other than that, I'm not saying a damned thing.**

**We're in Krow Blood's territory now, and shit just got real.**


	19. Chapter 19

**Oh Ye of Little Faith….**

**This fic is far from dead. I just wanted to finish The Fourth Option, and I'd rather hand you guys a chapter than an explanation…**

**We're in Krow Blood's Territory now. This is where we start to really tip-toe away from strict cannon.**

**28/01/13- cleaned up most of the spelling erros and whatnot.**

* * *

><p>Mutatis Mutandis 19<p>

The world swam into focus, revealing Jason's less than pleasant surroundings: another set of endless concrete subway tunnels. The floor was cold and the heavy chains binding him were digging uncomfortably into his side. He had no idea where in the wasteland they were; all the tunnels looked the same from underground. Jason knew most of the wasteland's subway tunnels, having spent four years wandering through them, but he didn't recognize this particular one. Perhaps it was the disorientation, or the way his head was pounding.

A modest fire had been lit, something to lessen the sting of the chilly concrete labyrinth. It cast a rather comforting orange glow on the cold walls, but put Jason ill at ease. Fires presented silhouettes - easy targets. Darkness was safe. Or at least it had been. He grimaced, remembering the floodlights, and the giant in Enclave armour.

As if on cue, the hiss and whirring of power armour echoed through the tunnel as the figure stomped into view. He was carrying an enormous minigun the likes of which Jason had never seen in the capital wasteland. It had been kept in immaculate condition, painted in reds and oranges. Chrome rings held the barrels together, and it looked as if some sort of coolant system had been added on; pipes and fins were tangled around and through the killing machine, all feeding into a compressor hitched to the back. White lettering had been stenciled to the bottom of the ammo case - of a size and make Jason had never seen before – and it said: CZ57 Avenger.

The giant set his contraption down directly across from Jason, and moved out of view. The Wanderer could hear his captor digging through a cloth bag of some sort. He returned a short while later carrying Jason's Perforator, turning it this way and that, examining it from all angles. It looked pathetically tiny in his enormous armoured hands, and he unloaded it with ease and tossed the empty weapon across the fire. Jason grimaced as it clattered across the rough floor, sliding to a halt a foot from his nose.

"This… this is the weapon of a conniving, sneaky little cunt." The giant reprimanded. He leaned back and gave the minigun a tender pat. "This here's my baby. I've mowed down armies with this weapon, but you? How in hell did you ever fight the Enclave with that thing?"

"It's not my only weapon."

"I know. I got the others for you. Like your Chinese assault rifle. Thirty-six rounds per mag? That there's a real man's weapon."

"Who are you?"

"I told you already."

"Narg?"

"And don't you forget it."

"Very helpful." Jason murmured. "Thank you."

"Look, I didn't come all the way to this shithole to play twenty questions, kiddo."

"Shithole?" Jason glared at him.

"You've seen this wasteland, right? Where are the fucking whores? Where's the booze? Christ I miss New Reno!" The figure reached for the nearby satchel and began to dig around inside. "By the way, did a little experiment while you were out cold. Thought you might want to see this." He pulled out a small plastic bag. A finger, detached from whatever poor bastard had previously owned it, lay inside, smeared with blood.

Jason shrugged, a painful exercise as he was working against his bonds. "So what?"

"It's yours!" the armoured warrior announced happily.

Over his four years of adventuring, Jason had witnessed, heard and been told a great many strange things, which is why he maintained his composure and did a quick count of his own digits. Ten for ten.

"Bullshit." He said.

"No, seriously. I cut it off not two days ago. You grow back! It's fantastic. I doubt even the Boss can do that! I got curious. I wanted to try it ever since we fished that bullet outta your skull."

Jason frowned. "What bullet?"

"Burke put ya under and locked you in a vault. We broke in and pulled it out so you could regrow. Gave Jackrum a little help."

"Who's we?" Jason frowned and made a mental note to ask Jackrum some very insistent questions.

The Warrior gave him a blank look. "Me an' my friend."

"Yes, but who are you?"

"Narg." He shook his head in exasperation. "Honestly, kid! We've been over this!"

"I didn't ask your name!" Jason spat. "I asked who you are!"

"I'm Narg. West coast version of you." There was a thoughtful pause. "Except more badass."

"West coast? What do you mean another version of me?"

"Look, why aren't you more interested in the fact that you can actually grow back lost limbs? I mean… can I chop off your head?"

"No." Jason stared. "But thanks for asking…"

"You're not curious?"

"No."

"Not even a little?"

"No!"

The giant sighed. "Look, I've seen more crazy shit than any sane man should, and I can take care of myself. But I can't even do that. I mean, I'd be freaking the hell out if I was you!"

"But you're not." Jason replied evenly. "I've known for a long time that I can heal. It's not news." He shook his bound hands. "Besides, I have bigger problems!"

"On that we can agree." His captor nodded. "You got Supermutants overrunning the capital wasteland. They're all the way to Fort Bannister now."

Jason froze. "Fort… is it… what about Bigtown? Arefu?"

"No idea. Probly ashes. So why the fuck are you busy asking me questions! We gotta stop this! They burned the Brotherhood!"

"Not all of them." Jason murmured, feeling more and more out of his depth; a rare occurrence. He felt a stab of guilt, remembering What he had done to Sarah. He knew she wouldn't be happy in there, but she was alive at least, and he hoped she was all right.

"I know." The armoured man held up a control board. The one Jason had removed from the Vault 101 door controls. "Who exactly were you planning on giving this to? And when? Ya clearly didn't mean to let your blond get stuck there for the rest of her life."

Jason stayed silent, glaring at him. the warrior sighed and carefully set down the board. He reached up to the back of his helmet and undid a few clasps. Jason heard a faint hiss as the carefully regulated air inside the helmet was released to mingle with the stale subterranean air. The glowing eyes faded as the helmet split apart on its hinges, revealing the face of his captor.

The man was old. Far older than Jason had expected. The last time he'd seen a face that marred by age, he'd been talking to Obadiah Blackhall. But even that depraved Shaman lacked the tattoos. Thin black lines delicately traced the man's features, accenting his hooked nose and thick grey brows. They swirled and swam across his face and down his neck in a frenzied psychedelic tribal dance, and Jason wondered if the man's entire body had been decorated. Quite often, the hypnotic patterns were interrupted by jagged pale scars. The man's hair was gray, fading to white, and he kept it cut very short. His bead, on the other hand, was a mess, bunching out at odd angles, his myriad scars making it impossible to shave properly. Instead it looked as if any time a particular bush were growing too unkempt, the man would take his combat knife to it. Perhaps that was even where some of the scars had come from.

With a pair of cold, grey eyes, the old man surveyed Jason. They looked familiar, and Jason found himself trying to place them. Had he seen this man before? Jason felt sure he would have recognized those tribal tattoos. But he then realized he saw them every time he looked in a mirror. The old man was a Wanderer, same as him. Just… a few years more experience.

"Look, Jason." The Tribal said, "I know you and I kinda got off on the wrong foot… mostly my fault. I don't like tip-toeing, and you?" he nodded at the Perforator. "You're all tip-toes. I can't tell you why, and I can't give you all the answers, but I'm on your side, and I have the key to winning this fight."

He rose and disappeared from view again, only to return carrying a black satchel. From this, he drew a rather strange-looking pistol. At least, it had a pistol's grip. But no barrel, no discharge port, and no place to insert a magazine. Instead, some kind of an energy weapon had been mounted on the top. Jason recognized the signature machinery for a laser pistol, but it didn't look like a regular AEP7.

"Tell me, do the words 'Highwater Trousers' ring a bell?"

"Not at all." Jason said,. Trawling his memory for some obscure reference.

"No? Well let me explain it, then. Before the war, the USA built satellite communication towers north-west of D.C. You must have seen them, at least…"

"Raider hide-outs. They had mininuke stockpiles on top. I cleared them out." Jason grunted. "Nothing of value left there."

The old man grinned, causing the elaborate tattoos to dance across his features. "Except a computer system connected to orbital platforms capable of activating nuclear strikes."

"_What?_"

Narg gave him a smug smile, "Didn't look very hard, did you? This little gun is a modified laser detonator. It'll let you launch those things, and more importantly, it'll decide where they land."

Jason's eyes widened as he considered the implications.

"You have eight nukes." Narg told him, putting the weapon aside. "Choose your target carefully. A place like the center of the mutant camp, or in the behemoth pens would do a lot of damage. But you'll have to get close enough to paint the target for me. I'll be up north, activating the system. Brutus knows about it, and he set up a guard there long before he attacked the Citadel.

"You knew about this?"

"Been watching it develop for some time, trying to pull strings behind the scenes. Turns out that don't work too good."

"You could have saved lives!" Jason said, overtaken by a sudden fit of rage. "you could have stopped this! Why didn't you tell me any of it? _Why didn't you help!?_"

"I wanted to see if you could go it alone." The old Tribal shrugged, his voice serene. "But it turns out you're a little incompetent. Why the hell were you up north with the girl instead of down in D.C. hunting Brutus? Do you love her or something stupid like that?"

"Shut up!" Jason snapped, glaring at him.

"What a very coherent response." Narg replied, shaking his head. "You need to grow up kid. One woman ain't worth the world. I don't care how good a lay she is!"

"We haven't even… actually…" Jason's voice died away, but he rallied magnificently. "And I'm not in love either!"

"Wait… seriously? You didn't even sleep with her? _What's the goddamned point then?_"

"You're a pig!"

"And you're a fool! And we're going to make a great team if only you'd get over yourself long enough to stop the mutants from taking over America. It's not just your little slice of hell what's at stake here! Work with me, Wanderer, or you'll live to see the world go up in flames!"

"What do you mean?" Jason grunted venomously.

"I need to talk to Brutus. Some very scary people gave him some very scary technology. Game-changing shit, right? I need to know what he traded in return, and we need to stop him."

"What scary people?" Jason frowned. "Burke? The Talon Company? I know Brutus was negotiating with them. Burke was going to double-cross him…"

Narg waved a hand to silence him. "That'll have to wait till after. Right now we need to stop Brutus. At any cost. If he wins the war for the capital wasteland, it could very well be the end of the entire state, then the entire Eastern coastline. Then he'll move inland and things'll get even hairier. Let me tell you something, Wanderer, when you and Jackrum finished Burke off, you made things far worse for the rest of the free world."

"Why? What has Brutus got that's so terrifying?"

Narg shrugged. "Aside from a horde of angry muties? Just a virus. Some kind of an upgrade. I don't know what it does exactly, but my guess is that his prototypes won't need the FEV to reproduce."

_That _explained a lot. Jason had wondered why all the female scientists at Project Purity had been spared. He chewed his lip, considering the grim implications. "He's set up a harem somewhere, hasn't he?"

"Now you're thinking with your brain." Narg congratulated, his tone equally disgusted. "He's got breeding pens of some sort. Churning out as many mutant babies as possible. I don't know how many he has, or what the new ones can do, but…"

"We need to shut it down. Where is it?" Jason started to struggle with his bonds, his anger and curiosity at his strange new ally overtaken by a feeling of absolute revulsion, and a renewed determination to escort this 'Brutus' mutant to an early grave.

"I don't know." Narg admitted. "But I know someone who might…" To the Wanderer's surprise, Narg rose to his knees, leaned across the fire and used his Power Armour's assist to easily snap the thick chains, allowing his captive to spill out onto the concrete floor.

Jason took a few moments to recuperate, and then sat up and grabbed his Perforator. "Where is this person?"

"It's a supermutant general, actually. We're going to capture him and torture him until he tells us where Brutus' breeding grounds are. We have three objectives." The Tribal explained. "We're going to destroy Brutus' children. Then his army. Then we're going to salt the earth, so to speak, and drive the Supermutants out of D.C. forever. Make it unlivable for them."

Jason grinned. He liked the sound of that part. "How?"

The tribal pulled a second item from the black satchel. Jason recognized it instantly. He'd last seen it in Rothchild's lab, assumed it lost, or worse, in Brutus' possession. His fears were laid to rest as Narg opened it and flooded the tunnel with blue light.

"The FEV cure." Narg explained. "The one you and Jackrum retrieved from the D.C. ruins. This is the final step. Inject it into Project Purity, and watch the wasteland get soaked in anti-mutie water."

* * *

><p>"Commander!" Hands gripped Jackrum's shoulders, shaking him with a certain insistence that couldn't be ignored. He waved off the intrusion and mumbled a few curses, trying to bury his head further into the pillow.<p>

Except that he couldn't find one, and this bed was rather hard and was he …sitting?

He sat up and peeled a piece of paper off his cheek, staring down at the surface of his desk. A scorch mark revealed where a lit cigarette had continued to burn long after his own brain had clocked out. How long had he been asleep? His back was aching like mad.

"Commander!"

He looked up. Sergeant Turner was standing in front the desk, wearing a terrified expression.

"What's happening?" Jackrum's questing hands happened upon another packet of cigarettes hiding in vain underneath a pile of reports. He pulled another out and fumbled for a match, listening intently to the young merc.

"It's the muties, Sir! They're here!"

Jackrum froze, the lit match halfway to his mouth. "How many?"

"Looks like all of 'em, Sir!"

Jackrum's brow furrowed. "And why aren't I hearing gunfire, Turner?"

"They aren't shooting, sir."

Jackrum winced as the lit match began to burn his fingers. He dropped it in the metal garbage pail beside his desk and rose to his feet. "I meant from our side!"

"They, um… they have a flag." Turner explained awkwardly. "A white one… sir. They want to negotiate…"

Jackrum stared. "Negotiate…"

"Yes sir."

"With muties?"

"Yessir."

The old merc sighed. "Alright, I gotta see this for myself."

* * *

><p>The mutant army was indeed huge, and they did indeed have a flag. Not a real one. It looked like a bloody lab coat had been strung up on some rebar, but it still managed to get the message across.<p>

The horde stretched all the way south from Fort Bannister to the edge of the Evergreen Mills crater. Jackrum wondered exactly how many had gathered. Eleven or twelve hundred? At least three for every recruit he had. He saw far too many overlords and masters carrying miniguns. A few Behemoths were in the crowd, stomping around, disrupting the formations. If the horde attacked, it would result in a massacre.

The mercenaries around him were bustling with activity. Delivering last minute packs of ammunition, and directing underground those civilians who didn't want to fight. Jackrum felt a surge of pride; his boys had excellent trigger discipline. Not a shot had been fired yet, by either side, but the tension could be broken at any minute. He thought quickly and leaned over to Turner. "Get the kids up here. And the women. I want them dressed in full armour, armed with rifles I don't care if they're loaded or not."

"Ain't that dangerous, Sarge?" Turner said doubtfully, after relaying the orders. "I mean… if those muties attack, they could get hurt."

"Kid, if those muties attack, we're all dead whether we're cowering in a vault or shootin' from the barricades. I just want us to look like too much trouble."

"Right…"

A horn blared in the mutant ranks, and Jackrum felt the fort tense, ready to fire at the first sign of aggression.

"_BUUUUUUUUURRRRRKE!_" the roar echoed across the wasteland. The horde parted revealing a blue and gray-skinned mutant in rusted spiky armour. A crown-like helmet covered his head, and on his back was an enormous, horrific sword.

"Ahhh…" Jackrum grinned and turned to his lieutenant. "That'll be Brutus. I'll be right back. If they so much as fire a shot, you turn _that _mutie to dust, understand, kid? He's their leader."

"Well then why don't we do it now, Sir?"

"Sure. Why not? Let's just bring the entire horde down on us." Jackrum replied. As if to accentuate his point, the women and children were busy being filed up into the courtyard and placed along the barricade with the rest of the human survivors. Jackrum caught a brief glimpse of their terrified faces, and for a moment regretted sending them up. He took a deep breath and stepped towards the gates of Fort Bannister. "Only shoot him if he kills me, kid. Only if he kills me."

* * *

><p>As Jackrum approached the front lines of the mutant horde, Brutus' expression turned from furious, to startled, to suspicious.<p>

"Jackrum." He said.

"Brutus."

"The Lone Wanderer is alive!" the mutant growled.

"I know." Jackrum said, keeping his face blank. He let out a stream of smoke. "I've heard a few stories from the survivors of your little war."

"This was corrected!"

Jackrum shrugged. "I guess Burke lied."

"Where is he?"

"No idea. He just told us his job was done, and that he was going back." Jackrum grinned at the mutant. "Also, Jabsco had an accident. I'm in charge now."

"Convenient." Brutus observed.

"Isn't it just? But I'm sure Burke'll be back to fix his mistake. Or hell, why don't you take care of it? Why do we always have to do all the heavy lifting?"

"It was no mistake!" Brutus roared angrily, "You double-crossed me!"

Jackrum made the mutant wait while he fished out a cigarette. He eyed the horde the Mutant had brought with him. It was certainly enough to finish Fort Bannister, and the thought struck him that if the mutant wanted to destroy the Talon Company, he would have.

So what was stopping him? He clearly didn't regard them as allies anymore… Only one thing would stop a Supermutant like Brutus from destroying vulnerable enemies: Fear.

Jackrum thought back to his first conversation with Brutus. Burke had said something. Something about his employer. The Talon Company were the Supermutant's enemies, but clearly Brutus wasn't willing to gamble that Jackrum's coup de tat was complete. For all he knew, Jackrum had double-crossed Jabsco _on Burke's behalf_. Jackrum was the more capable, after all. All four of them had known that from the start.

The old Merc decided to gamble. He struck a match, cupping his hand to protect the vulnerable flame from the sand-strewn breeze, and lit his cigarette, meeting Brutus' eyes.

"Maybe we did." He said playfully. "But you know who we work for. You want to attack, go right ahead. Maybe Burke'll bring back some of his friends."

The Mutant's fist flew out and stopped…less than an inch from the Merc's face. The sudden rush of wind damned near extinguished Jackrum's cigarette, but the old Merc just grinned. Back at the fort, he could just imagine all the snipers relaxing their trigger fingers. Brutus scanned the Fort's defenses, clearly thinking along the same lines. The mutant king lowered his arm, breathing hard. "No. I will not face his armies yet. Not his abominations. We are not ready."

"That's what I thought." Jackrum replied, suddenly feeling very nervous –and not because he was standing in front of a horde of vengeful supermutants. He was nervous because he had double-crossed people who were capable of scaring an _entire supermutant army_ into submission. What was going to happen to him when they heard of it? Something for later consideration. Said army of frightened muties was standing in front of him now- a more immediate problem. He tossed the butt of his cigarette onto the ground and mashed it into the dirt with his foot. He looked back up at Brutus. "Have a nice day."

"You are hiding human refugees in your fort?"

"What?" Jackrum asked, giving Brutus a cocky grin, "We're recruiting."

"Children as well?" Brutus asked, his voice dangerously low.

Jackrum shrugged. "It's 'Bring-your-kid-to-work' day." He turned and walked back to the fort.

"Human!" Brutus called out. "Cherish your remaining days. As soon as we are ready, we will crush you."

Jackrum turned in mid-stride and gave the king a theatrical bow. Then he continued stomping his way towards the fort. He stomped back through the open gate and examined the new Talon Company's shocked faces.

As always, Turner materialized beside him. The boy was still holding his clipboard. He looked as impressed as he was scared.

"They'll leave soon." Jackrum told him. The Veteran raised his voice so the rest could hear. "Keep manning your guns until they're gone, but keep your fingers off your triggers. "

"What if they don't leave?" a frightened recruit demanded. A few of his buddies nodded.

"They will." Jackrum said confidently.

"…Why?" Turner inquired, unnerved by his superior's composure.

"Cos I said please. Haven't you heard, Turner? It pays to be polite."

* * *

><p>The mutant army streamed away from the fort, with Brutus in the lead. Argus and Rust took up their positions beside him, each of the masters as silent as the grave.<p>

"Jackrum cannot be trusted." Brutus said, glaring east towards the D.C. ruins. He grasped Rust's shoulder. "You will keep some of the Horde here. Starve the humans . Do not allow any more recruits or refugees to seek refuge there. Do not allow them any more supplies. But do not kill them yourselves. Weaken them all, and we will deal with him again on our terms. The families in that fort must be given the new virus, and delivered to Alpha's caves."

"Yes sir." Rust said dutifully.

"This is a minor setback." Brutus added, reassuring his generals. "We will be back for blood."


	20. Chapter 20

Mutatis Mutandis 20

Jason peered through the scope of the Perforator, using Fort Bannister's floodlights to examine the lines of muties. There had to be close to two hundred of the abominations, shambling through the night. Beyond them, Fort Bannister was bustling with activity. Silhouettes of Talon mercenaries were running back and forth like tiny ants. Jackrum had obviously put his newfound authority to good use. The first time Jason had seen the Fort, the only thing holding out the Wasteland was a rickety chain-link fence. Now there were sandbags and metal plating, bristling with sniper towers and gun emplacements. Bannister was a proper Fort, now. And the Talon company appearing at least to be a far more formidable presence in the wasteland.

Even getting as close as they had to the fort was a challenge. The Talon Company was a formidable threat, and clearly the mutants thought so as well. The mutant party had formed an enormous blockade around the compound, their intentions obviously being to starve the Talon Company into submission. Jason smirked; clearly his actions at Rivet City had forced Brutus into far more cautious tactical strategies.

Or wasn't something else? A truce of some kind? Unlike the siege of Rivet City, no shots were being exchanged. Both sides were silent, stuck in a stalemate. Perhaps Jackrum had found some way to force the mutants to stay their hand. Or was it a defensive ring? Were they allies? It was a blockade, and clearly the mutants were clearly ready to fend off attacks from both sides of their encampment. The Talon Company had worked with Brutus before. Was Jackrum dead? Were the two factions allied again? A thousand questions began to spring up and it dawned on Jason that, whether the mutant general was in the vast ranks before him or not, he did not have enough information to proceed. He grimaced in frustration as Narg planted himself a yard away, making no real effort to conceal any movements. Jason was on his stomach, keeping a low profile, breathing lightly and staying as still as possible, constantly scanning the wasteland on all sides. Narg, on the other hand, had simply strode along the edge of the ridge and plunked himself down, his heavy armour whirring and jingling and making all manner of irritating, unnecessary noise.

"Sooo…. how's it lookin'?" the Tribal asked.

"I need to get in that fort. Find out what's going on. Why aren't they shooting at eachother?"

Narg shrugged carelessly. "Outta bullets? Sticks? Rocks?" he sniggered. "There ain't much else around here, that's for sure."

"Stop insulting my home."

"Why? Trust me, kid. You ain't seen nothing."

"I've seen quite a few things, thankyou."

"Sure you have." Narg reached down and patted him comfortingly on the shoulder.

Jason scowled, but decided that arguing was pointless; he had enough problems to deal with. "Do you have a plan?"

"Kill a bunch of'em." Narg grunted happily. He slipped a fresh ammunition belt into his minigun and pulled back the bolt, readying the weapon. "My day ain't complete without watchin' a mutie's head explode." He grinned back at Jason, who raised an eyebrow.

"Don't give me that look." The Tribal ordered irritably. "Don't tell me you've never spouted a one-liner?"

"I shot a behemoth _with _a jetfighter." Jason murmured, staring through his scope. "I don't need one-liners."

"Ohh, big man." Narg grunted sarcastically. "Ever blown up an oil platform?"

"Nope. Just a Landcrawler. Mountain base…and an alien spaceship."

"No shit, huh?" Narg whistled, making the younger Wanderer groan in fear. Jason scanned the front lines to make sure none of the muties had not heard the high-pitched noise. After he was sure of their safety, he confronted the tribal. "What the hell is the matter with you?"

"What're you so worked up about, kid? Either one of us could take that horde and win."

"Really?" Jason hissed skeptically. "All several hundred of'em?"

Narg squinted at the mutant lines, sizing them up. "Three hours and a minigun. You?"

Jason maintain his outraged silence.

"C'mon kid." Narg promptly gently. "Don't tell me you hadn't thought about it…"

Jason sighed and glanced at the encampment. "Six and a switchblade, If it's dark out." he admitted grudgingly. "Four, and my Chinese Assault Rifle if it's not. Assuming I have the ammunition."

"Exactly my point. We can take'em!"

"And _my_ point is that we shouldn't start fighting until we know what's going on. We're here to interrogate a mutant general, remember? Can you honestly guarantee he wouldn't get killed in the firefight? Especially if the Talon Company gets involved? Jackrum, if he's still in charge, might see us and order his troops to back me up. Or he could just assume the muties are attacking him. I dunno, but I don't trust their trigger fingers. Too many variables. We need to get the general away from the camp before we wipe them out."

Narg gave him a shrewd examination, his expression showing a sense of new-found and hard-earned respect. "Alright, kid. What's the plan?"

* * *

><p>Turner finished writing on his clipboard. He handed the long lines of calculations to Jackrum, who flinched away and handed it back. He rubbed his eyes and groaned, his voice echoing in the cramped space of the Fort's briefing room. The constant cold concrete walls were beginning to grate on his nerves. He missed traveling through the wasteland. And how much it allowed him to avoid paperwork.<p>

"I don't suppose you could cut to the chase, kid?" he requested.

"Three weeks, Commander." Turner explained. "We need more water. Perhaps we could use our stealthboys to fetch some. I'm pretty sure the raiders had stockpiled barrels of Aqua Pura in Evergreen mills."

Jackrum sniggered. "So… what? Our boys just sneak through the muties, grab the barrels and sneak back? You don't think the supermutants would comment on the random barrels floating past their firepits?"

"You got any better suggestions?" Turner challenged. "They have us pinned, Sarge. We could try fighting our way out. But then Brutus would bring the rest of his horde down on us. You saw their numbers. We can't take that. Not without help."

A quiet voice spoke from the doorway. "Looks like I came just in time, then."

The four other mercenaries gathered around the table all twisted in their seats to see the speaker. Jackrum just grinned as the subtle shimmer floated further into the room and shut the door.

"Boys, if you got weapons, put'em on the table." Jackrum ordered. His mercenaries obeyed. Each merc's expression ranged from curious, , to terrified, to relieved depending on whether or not he or she knew exactly what was going on. Jackrum himself was in the latter category. He'd been waiting for the Wanderer to show up ever since the invasion began. Now it finally seemed like the war was beginning to turn in humanity's favor.

"Hey, kid." He said.

A moment later, the Wanderer de-cloaked and pulled off that unsettling hood. He was missing his bandana, but everything else was intact, including his silenced assault rifle and brown duster. A few of the mercenaries yelped and leapt backwards in surprise and fear. One of them reached for his weapon, and found the Wanderer's rifle leveled at him. He leaned back slowly and raised his arms, taking a few steps away from the table.

"Easy, Fletcher." Jackrum spoke softly, raising his hands in a conciliatory manner.

The Wanderer lowered his rifle and walked to the table, grabbing an empty chair on the way and dragging it over. He took a seat beside a few of the Mercenaries, all of whom shifted away a few inches. He ignored them completely, instead focusing on Jackrum. He said, "We have a serious problem."

"No shit." Jackrum fished out a cigarette.

"Not just the muties outside your doorstep, Sarge."

"How'd you get past them?" a merc asked carefully as Jackrum set about lighting his cigarette.

"I didn't stop to ask them stupid questions." The Wanderer replied. He turned back to the Veteran. "Brutus has a new FEV formula. Apparently it can create muties capable of breeding."

"Oh yeah?" Jackrum took a thoughtful drag. "Kinky." A few of his subordinates chuckled.

"It means they wouldn't need to take prisoners anymore." 'Fletcher' explained further, clearly frustrated by the Merc's lack of reaction. "Brutus' mutants take females alive whenever possible. He did in Project Purity, at least. He's created a harem or breeding pen of some kind."

The other mercenaries murmured in disgust. Turner just grimaced.

"So go deal with it." Jackrum suggested. "I've got my own problems. Come back and help when you're done."

"Well that's just it. I don't know where it is, and the only lead I have is somewhere in the mutant army outside this fort. I don't know which one it is, but I need to get him somewhere quiet and separated so that I can interrogate him. Think you can help?"

"Probably. But I need a reason to put my boys and the civilians here at risk, kid."

The entire room froze, staring in terror at the Wanderer. None of them could imagine calling him 'Kid' and living to tell of it.

Fletcher just smiled. "Of course, Sarge. You don't think I'd let you down, do you? I have a friend, waiting outside. He's like me, except he wears Power Armour and uses a minigun."

"That doesn't sound like you at all, Kid. You're a stealthy bastard."

"I meant he's just as good as I am at killing things."

Jackrum's brow creased as he remembered his strange rescue mission to Vault 106, only months ago. If the mysterious stranger and his power-armoured soldier were working with the Wanderer, it could only mean good things for the war-torn wasteland and bad things for Brutus.

"He'll help us fight off the Supermutants, and destroy their blockade, but we need to capture their leader first."

"You got a plan, kid?"

"Can you get him into the fort?"

"Possibly." Jackrum said.

"How?"

"Umm… excuse me." Turner said, in a small voice. Every eye around the able focused on him, and he shrank back a little. The last time he'd spoken with the Wanderer, the man in question had been holding a knife to his throat.

"Speak." Howlett ordered.

"We could offer them the civilians." Turner suggested. Observing the Wanderer's reaction, he immediately clarified his statement. "I mean, not really. But we tell them we want to trade for food and water, and he's going to have to come in and inspect the captives… then we kill his guard and capture him while the rest of the Talon company fights off the horde and your friend attacks from the outside."

"You don't think he'd expect something like that?" Jason asked.

"Well… he's a supermutant, right?" Turner grinned nervously. "I mean… they aren't that smart."

"You still believe that, after all of this?" Jackrum asked incredulously.

"Even if he doesn't come inside, it'll still identify him." Jason responded. "He'll have his negotiators reporting back to him after they deal with you."

Silence fell across the table. At least until Jackrum grinned. "Well if you and your friend can handle getting him into the fort… then that sounds like our best shot, right there."

The Wanderer stared at Turner a little longer before nodding. "I agree. See it done, and I'll pass the word to my friend outside." He rose to leave, and then turned back. "Actually, the rest of you, get out. I want to talk to Jackrum one on one. Collect your weapons and go. Except you." He pointed at Turner. "You stay too."

The rest of the committee –Jackrum could barely bring himself to call it that- filed out, leaving the Wanderer alone with the two mercenaries.

"Where's your bandana, Kid?" The Veteran asked.

"With Sarah Lyons in Vault 101."

"Ah." Jackrum's frown deepened. It had never really occurred to him that the Wanderer might have any romantic attachments. The young man had always seemed far too dedicated to his father's goals. It couldn't' have been good news for Fletcher- or Howlett. Whatever- to hear about the fall of the Citadel. "Is she alright, kid?"

"I think so." The Wanderer murmured distantly. He reached into his pocket and produced a piece of paper, along with a circuit board. He pushed both across the table with a fair amount of care, and took his seat again. "The circuit board is for Vault 101. I'm assuming you have some technically competent people working here."

"We do." Jackrum picked up the small green silicone board and examined it closely.

"They plug that back into the vault entrance controls, and open the door. When you need to. All of Megaton is in there, as well as what's left of the Brotherhood of Steel."

"How many?" Turner inquired eagerly.

"Two dozen Brotherhood soldiers. Close to sixty megaton residents." The Wanderer answered. "As of now, the Talon Company, Rivet City, and Vault 101 are the last human settlements left in the wastes. If my friend and I don't complete our objectives, you're going to have to open the vault, link up with Rivet City, and then fight or die."

"Or flee." Jackrum added, squinting at the circuitboard. "Have you heard from Tenpenny tower?"

"No. But they are far too exposed, and they have neither your firepower or Burke's reputation for protection. Jackrum, sooner or later the muties are going to get too powerful for anyone to hold off. We need to move now. After I deal with Brutus' harem, I'm going to D.C. to even the odds. I'll take out the behemoths. That'll at least give us a fighting chance."

"All the behemoths? All at once?"

The Wanderer nodded. "My friend has a way. I have to trust him."

"Do you?"

"Past destroying Brutus?" the Wanderer shook his head. "No."

Jackrum frowned, unfolding the piece of paper. A series of coordinates had been written in a very careful, very legible script. Turner leaned in and snatched it away from him. the young mercenary rose, nose still buried in the paper, and made his way over to the nearby filing cabinet, where he dug out the master copy of Talon Company's wasteland map. He spread it out against the wall and compared the coordinates.

"These are… radio towers?" the kid squinted at the paper. "Why did you give us radio tower coordinates?"

"Because I have weapons stockpiles underneath them." The Wanderer answered. "Assault rifles. Sniper rifles. Hunting rifles. Heavy weapons. Ammunition. Enclave armour… use it all."

"Thanks, kid. And have you seen any enclave activity?" Jackrum asked.

"Don't care." The Wanderer answered shortly.

"Well if you do see'em-"

"Then they die."

Jackrum's eyes narrowed. "You're going to hold on to that anger? Even while your world is burning, kid?"

"I'd rather use the flames to cook radroach meat."

"You're being stupid, kid. They have some hardware that could really help us. We should make contact and-"

The Wanderer rose angrily to his feet, keeping a tight grip on his assault rifle. "Shut. Up. Right now."

They glared at one another.

"Tomorrow morning, Brutus' general is to be in this compound." The Wanderer ordered. "Is that in any way confusing to you?"

Jackrum let out a long stream of smoke, and scowled at the Wanderer. "Crystal clear, kid. Just make sure you and your 'friend' do the rest. I can't kill you, but if any of my boys get hurt cos' of your bullshit blind anger, I'll make your immortal ass fucking miserable. Is _that_ in any way confusing to _you_?"

For a fraction of a second, the Wanderer's finger was on the rifle's trigger. Then he relaxed slightly. "Crystal clear, _Sarge_."


	21. Chapter 21

Mutatis Mutandis 21

Convincing the already frightened civilians to let themselves be taken 'hostage' proved to be an unforeseen difficulty. The Wanderer had left for several hours, presumably to inform his enormous friend of the plan, and make preparations of their own. Jackrum had to admit, he was looking forward to seeing the Wanderer and his friend in action. He himself had spent the meantime gathering the civilians in the enormous missile pit and trying to convince them to be used as bargaining chips in a fake negotiation.

What he rapidly realized could very well have been the entire surviving population of the Capital Wasteland was gathered there; a sorry sight. Dirty, smelly, underfed and disshevelled faces glared up at him from the shadowy pit. Other Mercenaries were gathered on the catwalks which circled the enormous concrete tube's inner wall. The floor had long since wasted away, and many of the civilians were standing ankle-deep in dirt. They looked miserable.

He had not expected this proposal to be greeted with enthusiasm, but he very quickly found out just how much goodwill the Talon Company had garnered since Littlehorn and Burke had twisted the organization enough to allow Jabsco to take over its management.

The civilians had run to him because they actually had no other options. Not because they were happy being there. And they certainly looked on the mercenaries as captors as much as protectors. It bothered Jackrum that his organization had been tainted to the point where people thought he'd sell children to Supermutants if it meant a little profit.

He wondered how many times that exact situation had occurred. The Talon company had been allied with Brutus, however briefly. And there was no way the muties could have kept their numbers up by catching the occasional drugged-out waster. Not at the rate the Wanderer picked the orange bastards off. Where had the new muties come from? Had people been bought and sold? Perhaps it hadn't been the Talon company. Had the purge of Paradise Falls cut off Brutus' supply, perhaps? Or had it been closer to home afterall? Jackrum took a small amount of solace in the fact that he'd never been asked personally to capture anyone, much less sell any human beings. But he was just one mercenary, and couldn't speak for the rest of them.

"This is not happening!" The rather elderly spokesman declared. His name was Evan King. Jackrum had met him once or twice before. The Veteran had been turned away from Arefu's proverbial gate more than once. It was in a relatively convenient place, and could have made good business serving mercenaries on their way back down to Fort Bannister. But unlike the Talon Company -Jackrum smiled ruefully- the town was run by good people.

"Look, this is the Wanderer's plan." Jackrum argued. "We are not going to hand anyone over to the mutants. We need to capture their leader for information."

"And what if we don't trust you?" the old mayor demanded. A few of his supporters nodded.

"If we wanted to hand you over to the muties, we could have done it a long time ago!" Jackrum argued. "We're trying to win this war."

"Really? Because we don't see a whole lot of killing going on." The old man responded acidly. "Where we you when Behemoths knocked my town into the river?"

"Getting armed and prepared. We barely had more warning than you did! This took us all by surprise."

"You were arming for three weeks!" a woman shouted from somewhere in the ocean of unhappy and borderline hostile faces. Jackrum couldn't help but notice the way the group had arranged itself: the sturdiest wastelanders on the outside of the group and the young, the old and the most vulnerable on the inside. They had done it without thinking.

"I was rebuilding the Talon Company!" Jackrum shouted back. "I had to take it away from Jabsco and his bosses first! It's under different management now, and if you want to ever go back to your homes, you have to do this. You have to trust us. We need intel from their leader, and this is the way to get it."

"And after they realize you've double-crossed them?" King demanded.

"We'll fight them off. The Lone Wanderer brought a friend or two. He's getting things organized on his end, but we have to move fast."

"Well I'm not going up there." The mayor declared, crossing his arms.

"He's right." Another waster said supportively. "We should never have gone to the Talon Company for help. What the hell were we thinking?"

Jackrum sighed as the crowd once again murmured in agreement. He produced a cigarette and tapped it thoughtfully against the flimsy cardboard case. Behind him, he could sense the tension in his own Mercs. A glance told him all he needed to know about how this latest statement had been received. The Civilians had been instantaneously transformed from helpless innocents to ungrateful burdens. Tensions were rising, and this sort of situation could go very badly, very quickly.

First step: Make the Talon Company less of a threat.

He turned backwards momentarily and raised his arm, waving the unlit cigarette. "Guns down, boys." The hesitated, and he gestured encouragingly. "Go on. On the ground. I don't want to see any finger near any goddamned triggers." He gave them a final glare, and one by one, giving him incredulous looks, they lowered their weapons. The Veteran turned back to the crowd of waiting Wasters.

He said, "I get where you're coming from. Believe me, I do. We're the bad guys. I get that. Always have been. Hell, I've lived with it for decades. But… well… we're human. Humans picking on humans. And that ain't right. I get that too. But you know what? our blood is as red as yours, and our skin? It's-" he glanced around the catwalks at the gathered mercenaries. "Well it's many colors, but it sure as shit ain't green!" He began to pick up speed, now that he had an angle to play. "This is the Capital Wasteland. Who here hasn't scraped and fought tooth and nail to get what they could? We had to. Every single Merc you see in front of you survived a fight. Me? I've lived through more than I can count. Same with most o' the boys under my command. Has anyone had it easy here? Has anyone here not had to work? Not had to suffer? This may be a shithole of a desert. No fresh water, no food, no shelter an' every day we're all of us hunted by shit the devil wouldn't take in the deepest circles of hell, it all gets shoved onto us! All of us! But we keep fighting. We keep building. And you know what? We were winning! We had fresh water! We had crops! We had the Brotherhood! And then them muties came and took it all away from us. They want us to lay down and die. I don't plan to. Sure hope you don't, neither. You can keep cowering in this hole, waiting for them to take my fort. But me and my boys? We're going to fight! We're going to bleed for this place cos it's our home, just like the capital Wasteland is our home. And I'll be damned before I let some green-skinned mutie bastard take it from me!"

Relishing the stunned silence, he pulled out a match and struck it on his chestplate. He lite his cigarette, saying "I ain't askin' you to die, and I sure as hell ain't handin' anyone over. There aren't enough of us humans left to play by those rules. If you die, we die with you. All I'm askin' is that you stand in the light of day and help me show those mutie bastards that we ain't going down quietly!" he took a deep drag on his cigarette and examined the crowd. "So who's in for a little fun? I'm looking for volunteers."

* * *

><p>The Supermutant 'diplomatic' party, for lack of a better word, slowly wound its way up the gravel slopes of Fort Bannister. It was headed for the partially open entrance. Jackrum's heart fell the moment he laid eyes on the small mutant band. Six heavily armed Overlords were accompanying the General up to the entrance. The Talon Company had the teeth to deal with the threat, but Jackrum couldn't guarantee that the General would not get caught in the crossfire. Furthermore, as soon as any of the mutants so much as shouted for help, the entire army would fall upon the fort, and Jackrum was not keen on starting that battle before he was ready. There was no sign of the Wanderer yet, but Jackrum hoped that the young man had a plan for dispatching the Overlords quietly.<p>

The negotiations themselves had gone off without a fault. He had sent a courier under a flag of truce to explain that the Talon Company was running low on supplies and would trade Wasters for food and water. All the leaders had to do was pick and choose. The mutants had responded with guarded optimism, sending the courier back with all of his limbs intact and instructions to 'keep dem alive foah us!'

He eyed his carefully arranged defenses. His own boys were set up in groups around the perimeter of the camp. Each group manned what Jackrum had dubbed a 'firepost'; a foxhole with a roof on top, a mounted minigun, and a collection of ammunition within. Within that outer ring lay more defensive structures, reinforcements, and a few emergency groups capable of heading to any part of the fort, should any section be particularly hard pressed during the coming fight. Most of the mininuke launchers had been set up as mortars with twenty shots apiece, and had sighted every inch of the dusty open ground within four hundred yards of the fort. The missile launchers were already sighted on the behemoths. All the weapons were loaded with what Jackrum desperately hoped was enough ammunition for the coming fight.

They were as prepared as they could be.

The bait, mostly women and children, though a few men had elected to stay with their families rather than sit upon the barricades. Jackrum had requested that each captive's hands loosely bound for the sake of appearances, and a small number of Talon guards were paced at intervals around the group.

He heard the nervous shouting as the mutant envoy approached the gates, and felt his apprehension grow; one way or another the coming battle would determine who owned the capital wasteland. The Citadel was gone. Rivet City was under siege, and far too close to the Mutant lines to wage a proper war. This was the last bastion, and if they lost here…

He looked back at the gates. The overlords were shuffling through, forming a protective cocoon with the mutant general in the middle. The Veteran took a deep breath and pulled himself together. He was somewhat reassured by Turner, who was standing just beside him. The stupid boy was still holding his clipboard.

"Kid," Jackrum ordered as the envoy made its way to him, directed by a few mercenaries. "Don't panic."

"You're shaking worse than me, Commander."

Jackrum glanced down at his trembling hands and grinned. The kid was right- Jackrum's hands were shaking enough for his cigarette to leave little zig-zagging trails of smoke. "After this is done, remind me to dock you some caps for lipping me off."

"I doubt the boys and I would stand for it, sir." Turner replied calmly as the mutants drew to a halt before them.

"You unionizing on me?" Jackrum grinned. "You Commie sons of bitches." He stared up at the Overlords. God, how he hated them! Not only their impenetrable bulk, but the way their neckless heads seemed to jut out from their chests, a further deformity. They were one more ferocious step from human, and they were all taller than him. That did not help. He hated staring up nostrils.

The group parted, revealing the mutant general. Jackrum had been a little worried that they might try to send a decoy, but even at first glance, he could tell they had sent the right mutant. The creature's relatively intelligent gaze told the Veteran that this mutant had more between its ears than more muscle. Not enough to prevent it from being capture, but it was a little smarter than its kin. The General stepped forward. It was small, by the abominations' standards, and its skin was a little more orange than green. It glared down at Jackrum the same way the old Merc used to watch radroaches when he was in a foul mood. Jackrum took great comfort in the fact that he had too many troops around for the mutie to risk stomping on him.

"I am Rust." It declared awkwardly.

"Commander Jackrum. Talon company."

But the mutant did not seem to care. It was busy examining the merchandise. "We want the females." It grunted in the usual halting mutant cadence. It leaned forward a little more, and Jackrum could smell the thing's abhorrent stench. It probably hadn't showered since it had been turned into an abomination. "And the human children." It added. "All of them. We have water. Food. You want? Give us prisoners."

The captives drew closer together in response, moving the youngest to the center of the group. Jackrum grinned at the General, spotting a faint shimmer creeping up on the left. "Yeah, about that…"

The mutant's yellowing eyes shifted over to him. "What?"

The veteran shrugged, spotting a second shimmer approaching from the opposite direction. "…I lied. We aren't handing over a damned thing."

The air exploded into motion, revealing the enormous Power-armoured figure, wielding strange-looking Power Fists. Before anyone had a chance to react, each of the figure's hands was snapping the neck of an overlord. The warrior moved forward, delivering a debilitating strike to the General's solarplexus, leaving the mutie on the ground, gasping for breath. At the same time, the Lone Wanderer had materialized on the far side of the group, slicing the throat of the nearest overlord and ducking under its ill-aimed retaliatory strike to repeat the process with his next target. He took his third by emptying his silenced assault rifle into its face, just as the armoured Warrior snapped the neck of the last overlord. The entire process had taken around five seconds, and the sudden merciless slaughter left the occupants of Fort Bannister standing in stunned silence.

One of the children began to cheer quite loudly until his mother shushed him.

Wanderer and Warrior turned as one to confront the mutant general, who was still trying to catch its breath. Before it could think shout, the enormous armoured warrior's hand was around its throat. He stomped off across the fort towards the bunker's access door, the Wanderer following close behind.

Jackrum grinned and turned to the wide-eyed refugees. "The Talon company thanks you for your participation. Now get armed and get back up here. We have a battle to fight!"

* * *

><p>Narg tossed the Supermutant leader to the concrete floor. They were standing in a medium-sized square room somewhere in the maze of tunnels underneath Fort Bannister. A single lamp in the corner was all the light the interrogation would require. The Tribal very carefully reached up and undid the clasps holding his helmet on. He set it on the floor and circled, putting a deliberate ease in his step; he had all the time in the world to break his prisoner.<p>

"You…. Chosen One!" the mutie growled, trying to rise. "We are going to break you! Not like last time! This time, Brutus will win!"

Narg planted a foot on its chest and pushed it back down. "Do you got a name, mutie?"

"Rust!"

The room's solitary door opened, and the Wanderer stepped through, looking grim. He glanced at Narg.

"We were just getting introduced." The Tribal explained airily. "Weren't we, Rust?"

"Stupid human! You will die! Even if you kill me!"

"Calling us stupid after he gets caught that easy…" Narg shook his head disapprovingly. "If that ain't the pot calling the kettle black. Got any problems with torture, kid?"

"Not at the moment." Jason replied grimly.

Narg grinned. "Riiiiight." He turned to the mutant. "This is going to be very simple, Rust. If you refuse to answer me, I will hurt you. If you lie to me, I will hurt you. If you fight back, I will hurt you."

Once again, The mutant named Rust tried to rise to its feet. Narg stepped forward and delivered a haymaker to the mutant's temple, knocking it to the floor again and opening a wide gash on the side of its head. Blood dribbled from between its fingers and stained the floor of their interrogation room.

"You pulled that punch." The Wanderer observed, crossing his arms..

"Course I did, kid. You want'im dead?" the Tribal turned back to his prisoner. "Stay down, you stupid fucking mutie!"

The prone figure crawled away a few feet, one hand held protectively over the wound.

"We know that Brutus is setting up breeding grounds for the Mark II mutants." Jason said. "Where are they?"

"Stupid human! I won't talk!"

"Well that's a cryin' shame." Narg muttered happily. He brought his power-armoured foot down on the mutant's thick knee, shattering it with a sickening crunch, and bending the leg backwards in a way that made Jason's eyes water. Rust howled in pain and drew in the injured limb, clutching at it helplessly.

"Where are Brutus' breeding grounds?" the Wanderer asked again, his voice an emotionless monotone.

"And answer fast, or you'll lose the other leg too." Narg added. "Never seen a mutie walk with a cane before. Should be worth a laugh."

"We will kill you all, humans! We will win! Brutus will win!"

"Brutus is just a mutant." The Wanderer said. He propelled himself easily off the wall he was leaning against and took a few steps forward, crossing his arms and staring down at the stricken mutant.

"Brutus is a mutant, just like you. Do you know how many mutants I've killed who were just like you? How many of your raids I've stopped? How many lives I've saved? How many captives I've rescued?" He placed the tip of his assault rifle against the mutant's other knee. "Where are the mutant breeding grounds?"

"Not telling!" the mutant snarled through gritted teeth. "Not talking!"

The Wanderer pulled the trigger, blowing out the mutant's knee. Chunks of flesh and bone scattered across the floor. Rust howled in agony.

"So there." Narg said, enjoying an obscene amount of satisfaction as he watched the mutant writhe in pain. "I guess his karma just ran over your dogma. Now where's the nest? Where is Brutus taking the female humans?"

"Not telling!"

A distant, muffled explosion shook the room, sending a few streams of dust spiraling down to the floor. The Wanderer and the Tribal glanced at one another. Jason gave him a pained look.

"Go save the day, kid. I'll join in after I've got what I needed." Narg ordered. The boy gave him a grateful look and disappeared out the door. Finally alone with the mutant, Narg took a deep breath and crouched In front of his prisoner. Rust shrank away fearfully, dragging its useless legs behind it.

"Now that the kid's gone," the Chosen One said carefully, watching the mutant's futile struggle, "I can ask the important questions. What did Brutus give the Good Doctor? What did he trade Presper in return for the FEV Mark II virus? What did you guys give to him?"

Rust collected itself and glared at him, looking worried. "Don't know. Not telling where prisoners go either!"

"Vault 87." The Chosen One answered dismissively. "I already knew that. Don't care. Don't much care what happens to this wasteland, either. That kid might be useful, but I'm after the important stuff. What did you give him, Rust? What did you give to Victor Presper?"

The mutant stayed resolutely silent. Narg sighed and drew a combat knife from the small of his back. Even when wandering in full power armour, having a blade around was never a bad idea. He said, "Remember what I said before, Rust? If you refuse to answer me, I will hurt you. If you lie to me, I will hurt you. Badly."

* * *

><p><strong>A quote from the "torture" scene was stolen from Zero Dark Thirty. Fantastic movie. Disturbing and horrific, but fantastic.<strong>

**I understand that torture is a touchy subject for some people, so of course I'm going to dive in headfirst and see how far I can push it. This story is rated M for a reason, and I have very little sympathy for supermutants anyway. This is not the worst thing I intend to put in this story, so hold on to your hats.**

**Might want to read Pro Posterus if you haven't yet. It'll give you a look at the bigger picture.**

**ALSO, huge news for this series, the Modus Operandi series is now on TVtropes! A reader named Racheakt messaged me a few days ago and told me he'd made an entry. It's listed as Children of the Atom, which is the name of the full series, including Pro Psterus and what is to come afterwards. If anyone can spot or name any tropes in this story off the top of their heads, let us know, and we'll build it up!**

**I can't actually log on to the TVtropes site for some reason. It keeps telling me I already have an account. I'm trying to get it sorted out, but in the meantime we could do with a few more tropes!**


	22. Chapter 22

Mutatis Mutandis 22

The Talon company struck first. On Jackrum's order the Fatman nuke launchers around the base opened up, raining nuclear fire on the tightly clustered mutant campfires. The response was both immediate and fierce. Gunfire rattled against Fort Bannister's defenses, killing more mercenaries than Jackrum had expected. However the volleys more than happily returned by the Talon company did impressive amounts of damage to the horde. Not that they could tell; it still looked as endless as it had the day the Mutants had first surrounded the base.

During the first two minutes of the fight, the opposing forces were relatively evenly matched. Though most of the mercenaries were younger, they were well disciplined. Jackrum had made a point of putting one or two veterans in each fire team. As he had looked to the experienced men during his first years as a merc, so too were the recruits following his lead, and those of the other Veterans. They had been well trained, and had been rehearsing their defensive strategies since the mutant invasion began. Many of the Fort's fire positions were mutually supportive, and of course the mini-nuke and rocket launchers, allowed the dispersal of any organized assaults.

The mutants, as usual, were disorganized and tactically inept. If Jackrum were to have assaulted the base, he would have moved his men up in loose formations to prevent groups from being targeted by mortars. He would have had snipers and miniguns provide covering fire to suppress the base's defenses. Then he would have had armoured mutants, or perhaps the behemoths, breach the Fort's vulnerable points. Move in with assault rifles, grenadiers, and hunting rifles in order to clean house. The Fort would not have withstood a properly organized attack. Instead, lacking a leader, the mutants just charged. A few of the smarter ones were still firing at the fort, but not enough to prevent the strategy from simply turning into a useless banzai charge. The field was littered with mutant corpses, slowing the approach of future waves.

The fight was even, until the Behemoths recovered. A few had missed the Talon Company's initial mortar strikes, and charged, bellowing furiously. They stampeded forwards, trampling more than a few of their own troops in the process. They kicked up storm of wasteland dust, obscuring both parties, though it caused far more trouble for the mercs, who were unable to pinpoint mutant groups.

Four of the giants vaulted over the barricades and began to lay the defenders to waste, using their clubs and feet to crush entire fireteams. Jackrum did his best to counter, using his reserves to bring two of the behemoths down while the main mercenary forces held the mutant army at bay, however his precarious strategy fell apart the moment the last behemoth to leap over the wall tripped.

The enormous abomination hit the earth with a resounding tremor that shook the entire base. Its ankles, hooked on the steel wall, had dragged down an entire strip of defenses, creating a wide breach nearly twenty meters across. A breach the mutant forces immediately targeted. With two angry behemoths still inside the base, and the third rapidly recovering from its fall, he had little resources with which to counter the mutant horde which was suddenly flowing towards the vulnerable base.

* * *

><p>Jason came out guns blazing. The roars of the Behemoths were audible even underground, and he came out with the Xuanlong assault rifle at the ready. Within a fraction of a second, he had taken stock of the battlefield which the interior of Fort Bannister had become, and knew where he was needed; at the breach, instead of fighting the Behemoths. Fireteams had converged on the opening, trying to hold back the savage tide of mutants, and he moved towards them as fast as he could. The corpse of a behemoth had fallen across the entryway, downed by a lucky missile strike to the side of its head. The brain matter had oozed out, forming a disgusting pool around the ingress point. While effective as cover for the defenders, it certainly wouldn't stop the advancing hordes from overrunning the base.<p>

The amount of incoming fire was staggering. The air was thick with bullets and lasers flying back and for the. Gunsmoke drifted across the battlefield, obscuring the vision of both armies, and exponentially multiplying the chaos. Yet upon his appearance, the defenders seemed to redouble their own efforts. Clearly fighting side by side with the Lone Wanderer was of huge benefit to their rapidly draining morale, but the problem with Morale was that it made a poor weapon. Bullets were always more effective. Jason held there for a good three minutes, trying to ignore the roars of the behemoths behind him, and the screams of the dying Mercenaries across the length of the base. Outside, the mutie lines were less than thirty yards, and advancing steadily. For every green abomination Jason took down, at least two were there to take up the slack as the Supermutant noose slowly tightened around the last remaining bastion of humanity.

* * *

><p>Narg calmly strolled up the steps, surveyed the battlefield which was formerly Fort Bannister, and sighed. The Behemoths had broken through, taking out a sizeable chunk of the defensive wall along the way. The Talon Company had managed to down the beast, creating a fairly effective piece of cover. The young Wanderer was there, doing yeoman service holding back the mutie tide. But he was clearly losing. Badly. Across the base, the remaining behemoths were throwing the human defenses into chaos. The most alarming one was within the crumbling concrete ruins at the northern end of the base; where the Talon Commander was stationed. The company's water tower had already fallen, turning the surface of the fastest approach to compound to mud; possibly his only weakness. Soft soil was very difficult to maneuver in while wearing power armour.<p>

The Chosen One was forced to shake his head in disgust. It was disgraceful, really. When on earth would people learn how to fight? He had to remind himself that the Talon Company had a two-fold agenda. Yes, they had to fight, but their force was small, with no reinforcements on the horizon, casualties would have to be kept to a minimum. There had to be enough people left to rebuild afterwards.

He caught a group of young mercenaries lugging a fatman across the center of the fort, and gently confiscated a mininuke, gripping it by the tailfins. None of the terrified mercenaries seemed in shape to argue with him, as he was nearly a foot taller than any of them.

The nearest supermutant behemoth was in the center of a ring of collapsed tents, being assaulted on all sides by a dozen mercenaries. The Chosen One adjusted his grip, holding the mininuke like a football, and gave the projectile a strong, overhead throw. It rose into the air, arcing high over the heads of the embattled mercenaries and striking the roaring behemoth in the shoulder. Blood and flesh rained down upon the battlefield as the mutant's arm vanished in a flower of bright nuclear fire. The mutant stumbled sideways and landed on the broken tents, clutching impotently at the gaping wound in its throat as liters of mutant blood stained the ground around it. The mercenaries fighting took the opportunity to finish it off.

Answering roar shook the battlefield as the monstrosity laying waste to the command center answered the pleas of its wounded brother. The behemoth tore its way out of the concrete structure and through the Fort's muddy, cratered-filled interior. It stampeded towards Narg, kicking clods dirt meters into the air behind it. The abomination roared triumphantly as it brandished its enormous club. The Talon Mercenaries around him backed away as fast as they could, leaving him open in the ring of tents.

Unconcerned, the Chosen One simply shrugged his Avenger minigun off of his shoulder and opened up on the mutant, targeting the monster's knees. Hollowpoint bullets hit the mutant's kneecaps at thirty rounds per second, flaying the skin, muscles, and sinew from the mutants very bones. Twenty meters from its target, the mutant staggered. At ten meters, it dropped to the ground, roaring in agony. Somewhere behind Narg, he could hear the answering call of the final behemoth, somewhere in the southern corner of the fort.

The mutant in front of him brought its club down in one final valiant attempt to end his life, but Narg dodged quickly to the right and raced forward, his power armour giving him the strength needed to scamper up the enormous mutant's thigh. At seven feet tall, Narg was standing at eye-level with the growling monster. He drew his fist back and threw all of his enhanced strength into a single punch, ramming his fist through the mutant's gelatinous eyeball, and into the brain beyond. The giant twitched spasmodically, but was still alive. Gripping the inside of the mutie's skull with his right hand, he unslung his BOZAR assault rifle with his left and opened fire, emptying an entire clip of hollowpoint rounds point-blank into the mutie's brain. Slowly, like an ancient tree, it crashed to the ground, dead.

Narg barely had time to move before he heard a roar from behind. Two enormous hands wrapped around him, squeezing tightly and lifting him high into the air. His BOZAR fell from his grip, disappearing into oblivion.

The behemoth lifted the enormous soldier high into the air, bellowing at him as dozens of lines of yellow tracer rounds perforated its toughened skin. The Talon mercs who had initially backed off had returned, bolstered by his single-handed victory over one of the Behemoths. The extra firepower slowed the monster down, but it didn't stop it. Caught in its ever-tightening grip, Narg struggled to get an arm free. The mutant opened its gaping mouth, exposing its victim to a claustrophobic view of yellow teeth and blackened gums. Foul, rotten breath assaulted his nostrils, making him gag and choke.

A missile hit the Mutant's elbow, breaking its grip. Narg dropped to the ground fifteen feet below, banging his jaw painfully against the inside of his helmet. Yet again, as he had done so many times over the decades, he thanked whatever god was on his side for having him run across armour as protective as the Mark II Advanced Armour. The Behemoth was stomping across the battlefield, laying waste roared in rage and agony, clutching the stricken limb.

Narg followed the path of the missile all the way back to Commander Jonathon Rumsfeld, standing in the ruins of his command center. Smoke trailed from both his cigar, and the missile launcher on his shoulder. The Merc leader handed the launcher to his bloodied assistant, and pulled out the Chinese assault rifle slung across his back. "Drive'em back, boys!" he called out.

From behind him, beyond the dusty veil covering his command center charged the remaining Talon Company reserves, followed by the surviving wastelanders, all yelling as they pounded across the fort towards the breach. The mutant hordes were there as well, stuck in vicious hand to hand combat with the defending mercenaries. Not a tenable position for the isolated group of Mercenaries, who were very quickly finding themselves being overrun. The Wanderer was with them, trying to lay down as much fire as he could, buying the fleeing survivors some time to escape.

Narg joined the last of the human survivors as they swept across the base, roaring in defiance. He veered towards the Wanderer, who was pinned behind a low ruined wall, trying to keep a couple greenhorns from getting gunned down by the three Overlords on the other side; the furthest mutant incursion into the Fort. As the Chosen One cleared the dwindling cover, the Wanderer joined him and they charged towards the advancing supermutant flood.

Narg reached the enemy first and let out a joyful howl as he tackled the nearest monster to the ground, putting his fist through its face. A sledgehammer hit him in the back, sending him skittering forward a meter along the dirt surface. The Overlord wound up for a second strike, but found its grip failing as the Wanderer carefully sliced the tendons in its arm. It turned on him, and got a dozen assault rifle rounds to the throat.

All around them, the Talon Company were regaining lost ground. Assault rifle toting wasters were finding cover in the war-torn ruins, laying down suppressing fire to drive the bulk of the mutant forces back through the whole. Teams of heavily armoured mercenaries advanced with combat shotguns to pick up the outliers and the stragglers. Miniguns and missile launchers taken from the hands of the dead -mutant and human alike- were pressed into service, adding to the Talon Company's firepower.

Narg pressed forward, bullets pinging off of his armour as he cut a bloody swath through the mutant horde, towards the breach. The Wanderer had disappeared, but Narg spotted him a few moments later, crouched on a nearby pile of rubble. He had acquired a sniper rifle somewhere, and was putting it to excellent use, trying to take down the miniguns, tri-beam rifles and missile launchers before the mutants used them to break the sudden human offensive.

On the far side of the breach, Narg could see wasters and mercenaries working diligently to close the gap and make the fort's defenses whole again. He turned back to the wreckage and began to tear out slabs of concrete, using his power armour-enhanced strength to give the humans back some amount of cover as the breach slowly closed. All mutants were either dead, dying, or fleeing back down the path to reform their shattered battle lines. A few Masters had taken command of the scattered forces, but their intellect was not all that far ahead of their brethren, and every time one of them began shouting orders, the Wanderer would remove him from the battlefield, throwing the mutants into further disarray.

The entire arrangement gave the wastelanders a moment's respite. In the Fort, medics were racing back and forth across the battlefield, trying to keep up with the agonized screams of the wounded. A few mercenaries were moving among the scattered dead, finishing off wounded muties and helping whomever they could, however they could.

Jackrum, bloodied but unbowed, was marching through the crowds of humans, issuing orders and putting his own men back together. By Narg's estimation, the mutants had lost just under half of their foot soldiers, along with all of their behemoths. Rarely had he ever been a part of large battles. There generally weren't enough people left for the kind of numbers he was witnessing here. Until running into the Cole, he had worked alone for decades, all of his friends either having died or left. Working as part of a unified force was an interesting experience, and he found himself feeling a fair amount of hope and sympathy for the native population. He himself would make it out safe, he knew. He had fought through far worse situations without much trouble, but he wondered, even if they won, would the Wasters have the people left to rebuild?

The Mutants weren't the only side to lose people. Narg was not sure what losses the Talon Company had endured. The first clash had left both sides severely wounded. Yet Humanity had the upper hand. The Mercs had lost foot soldiers. The Muties had lost foot soldiers, their leader, and their heavy hitters. To top it all off, their position on the battlefield had not changed at all. Their lines were in exactly the same place they had been before the battle had started. Bolstered by their victory, what remained of the Capital Wastelanders gathered at the walls of Fort Bannister armed, united, and ready to face the next wave.

* * *

><p><strong>Lol, anyone remember this? It's a thing that's still going..<strong>

**I may have overpowered Narg's combat armour a little, but fuck it. Rule of cool. I wanted the Chosen One to have a very different way of operating. **

**This chapter took a very long time because I was running into writer's block with every sentence I wrote. I wrote more in the past two days than I have in weeks. I have a plan for the next set of chapters, and I know this is going to sound like a hollow promise, but I hope to get them out soon.**

**Big battles are difficult to write. There's a proper balance to be struck between action and story, and it's very difficult to set the pace of large fights like this.**

**I know what remains of the interrogation scene was skipped. I might add something later, or I might not. Either way I don't think it'll change the story at all from here on in which probably means it's unnecessary.**

**Anywho I hope you all are enjoying Mother's day! A****nd all my thanks to Krow Blood for pestering me to keep my nose at the grindstone! **


	23. Chapter 23

Mutatis Mutandis 23

"Again?" Amata said quietly.

Sarah shut the cell door and leaned against it, sliding to the floor. She pinched the bridge of her nose and took a long, deep breath, relishing the silence. It was too noisy in the Vault. Everyone was living too close together. God, did she ever miss the open sky. Vault life was claustrophobic, foul, and depressing as hell. Ironically enough, Sarah envied Amata, of all people. The young woman was stuck in the cell, that was true, but she had her own space, and blessed silence.

The Vault's transition had not been nearly as smooth as Rothchild –the Vault's defacto Overseer- had hoped. Some of the more troublesome residents clashed fairly frequently with the Wasters over what they considered mistreatment of Vault citizens. Things like the rationing of food, water, and medical supplies. Such rules were key to survival out in the wastes, and with the Vault's finite supply, the Wasters were very conservative about material usage. Most of the Brotherhood had sidearms with them, being some of the few trusted enough to carry firearms under the Vault's new martial law.

Sarah herself was one, but these days, especially with the bad dreams, she didn't like keeping herself armed. She was afraid of what she might do. Since Jason had locked her in the vault, she had been experiencing… episodes. Some ranging from less than a second, to a few minutes in length. Nothing outwardly violent or physical. However on occasion, sometimes when it was too loud, or there were too many people around her speaking all at once, the world blurred, and things occurred to her. It would be so easy to just punch somebody. Start a brawl and celebrate in the chaos. But it went further. Much to her horror, she found herself wondering how easy it would be to pick up that pencil, or that knife, or fork, and put it through the throat of the person standing nearest to her. What would that bottle look like caving in a skull. What kind of damage would that particular piece of machinery do to a man? The frightening thing was that she was imagining these violent acts happening to everybody from Glade, to Rothchild, to Amata. She had wandered through Jason's apartment again and found his father's straight-blade razor. It had taken alarming amounts of effort for her to resist picking it up for some dreadful purpose.

She had not done anything, had not acted on any of the impulses, but each time she came through another episode, she felt a little less certain about herself than the last, and she was terribly afraid that she had become some sort of psychopathic time-bomb. She didn't want to hurt anybody, but the visions that played themselves out in her innermost thoughts did not cause her disgust. Instead she felt a mild sort of dispassionate curiosity. Sometimes even fascination. It was not like she had been underexposed to violence. No one growing up out there could. It was just something in the noise and the space, or lack thereof, which was driving her mad.

On occasions she was quite frightened she was going insane. Or had perhaps already gone insane. Since the razing of the Citadel, all the old ties connecting her to the world seemed to be fraying, the binds slowly unraveling until sometimes all she wanted to do was have it all wash away. And then she would realize that the ambient noises around her had been replaced with the sweet sound of ocean waves, and the ringing of buoy bells-

"You have that look again." Amata said, interrupting her stream of thought.

Sarah blinked and glanced down at her hands. They had both curled into fists. Her teeth ached slightly, and she realized she'd been grinding them together.

"What look?" she asked, self-consciously clearing her throat.

Amata shrugged. "Just… I dunno. Distant?"

"I'm feeling tired. I haven't been sleeping very well." Sarah admitted.

"I know that. You've been talking to me instead." Amata gently reminded her.

This was true. Sarah sought refuge in the cell nearly every day. She wanted peace and quiet, and Amata was unobtrusive enough to provide that. The brunette woman studied her for quite some time. Eventually she said, "You act differently from everyone else here."

Sarah raised an eyebrow.

Amata clarified. "From what I've seen, ever since we all got settled in here, all the Outsiders have been acting like it's a waiting game. They're all calm. You… you're twitchy, you know? I always feel like I'm watching a wound-up spring."

"I'm fine." Sarah grunted. "I Just having some trouble adjusting… I can't imagine growing up in here."

"It's easy to do when it's the only thing you know."

"Have you ever actually stepped outside the Vault?" Sarah asked, honestly curious.

Amata shook her head. "I was curious, but after I became overseer, it was too dangerous to go out personally. Susie went instead and told me everything she saw."

"Too dangerous?" Sarah was about to scoff, but she gave it some thought and found she agreed. Her own father never left the Citadel for any reason either. Some people were too valuable to lose. "You're a part of this world, though. Might as well know what you're dealing with."

"I always thought the whole point of the vault was to leave the rest of the world behind." Amata said. "That's why I wanted to open it. And then I did and look what happened to us."

"For the record, we're being really nice to you people." Sarah told her. "Outside settlements? Humans up there usually just kill each other. Especially for the kind of resources this vault has."

"There are communities, though. What about Megaton? Trading, dining, praying… they even have a Sheriff. Society exists there. It can't be that bad. We still have some humanity left."

Sarah tried not to laugh. "See if you feel the same way after you walk through a Raider hideout and see the flayed bodies strung up on meat hooks."

Amata shuddered. "Well Susie once said something. They post them outside their bases as a warning, right?"

"And inside too. Like we'd hang a picture."

"But not everyone is like that though." Amata argued. "I mean look at you. You haven't killed me. The Brotherhood are the good guys. There are good people out there. We just have to get organized, right? Rebuild what we've lost. More advanced technology like you guys have means a more advanced society."

"Technology doesn't matter." Sarah said. "The most advanced community around was the Enclave, and they had a plan to kill every single person in the wasteland who wasn't either them, or a vault dweller. They wanted to wipe the slate completely clean. Advancement means nothing. Morality itself is just another narcissistic human idea."

Amata groaned and pinched her nose. "How can you live with such a pessimistic attitude, Sarah?"

"Sometimes I don't want to."

Amata paused, watching her friend carefully. "Is that why you come here? Am I your psychologist? Because I really don't think I'm qualified."

At this, Sarah couldn't help but burst out laughing. All of Obadiah Blackhall's speeches, warnings, and explanations for her miraculous recovery were brought to the fore. She said, "After what I've been through? I don't think anyone alive is qualified to work on _me_. But for the record, you're doing better than the last guy who gave it a try."

"Why? Who was he?"

"A raider medic." Sarah said. " He's dead now. Just like pretty much everyone else I know."

Amata nodded. "Do you think Jason is still alive?"

"I have no idea. But I know that if he isn't… I can't spend the rest of my life locked in here…"

"Well how many other options would you have?"

"Off the top of my head?" Sarah asked sourly. "At least one."

* * *

><p>It was dusk, and Jackrum's shadow stretched far across the carefully organized post-battle carnage. Bodies covered by brown cloth were laid in rows upon the smooth damp ground at the center of Fort Bannister. Too many, Merc and Waster alike. The Mutant losses were even worse. The fight had lasted well into the evening before the Mutie lines had finally broken. Their forces were routed. Literally decimated from four hundred to somewhere around three dozen. They crumbled under the unending fire of the exhausted defenders, and fled south. The fields surrounding the fort were green and red, drenched in mutant blood, covered in corpses. The heat was already causing that entire slice of the Wasteland to reek of decay. They would have to move soon, to prevent disease from finishing what the mutants started.<p>

The survivors had fared better, being only cut down to sixty percent fighting strength, but Jackrum was still very worried for their prospects in facing the bulk of Brutus' army, which was undoubtedly larger than the four-hundred strong contingent they had managed to destroy.

At last tally, including the able-bodied wounded, the Wastelanders had six hundred and thirty two. Only one third of the survivors were trained Talon mercenaries.

"What do you figure, Turner?" he asked.

"It's going to be tight." The kid said, moving to stand at his shoulder. "Definitely tight. We should get wounded and the children someplace safe."

"Like where?"

The kid thought for a moment. "Evergreen Mills? I know there's a cave system beneath. They could hold there for quite some time."

Jackrum glanced at him. The young man had a blood-stained bandage wrapped around his head, courtesy of a piece of shrapnel which had scraped him across the scalp.

"You alright?"

"Fine. Besides, they say girls like scars." The kid grinned awkwardly, trying to hide his discomfort."

"Is that right?" Jackrum asked skeptically, puffing on his cigarette. His own sex life had never benefitted from his work, nor from the marks and damage it had left on him. Danger was so common in the wasteland, and so few good men made it back as it was, that he had found girls tended to shy away from those who actively sought out danger. At least, all the ones he considered worth his time. There were always prostitutes, of course, and the rare young woman who liked a Man of Danger, but most of them saw mercenary life for what it was: Nasty, brutish, and usually short. In a land where preventatives were scarce at best, risking pregnancy or illness for a man who had an even greater chance of simply vanishing off the face of the earth just wasn't worth it.

He stared at the pile of bodies and reflected that if Humanity ever wanted to rise back out of hell, they might have to rethink the benefits of taking that particular risk.

"I have to get more work parties organized." Turner said, waving his clipboard.

"Learn to delegate, Sergeant."

"Then get me some decent help, Commander. Most of the grunts can barely read. I can't imagine anyone else making up all of these damned supply charts."

"Those charts saved our asses, kid." Jackrum told him. "We knew what we had and how to use it. Every survivor owes their lives to you. Don't expect them to thank you, though…"

"Of course not." The kid said sourly, stomping off. "We're just the Talon Company."

"There, see? You're learning." Jackrum said encouragingly.

The moment the young Merc was out of earshot, Jackrum turned to a distorted patch of wasteland a few feet behind him. "What is it, Fletcher?"

The Wanderer materialized and pulled off his stealth hood, looking slightly put-out.

"That magic act is getting old. Just spit it out. I'm a busy man."

Fletcher's eyes wandered across the bodies of the fallen warriors. "The Brotherhood and Megaton are both still locked in Vault 101." He reminded Jackrum.

"Good." Jackrum murmured distantly. "We could use some power armour."

"Well they don't have any, so make do without."

"Times like this, you're a real ray of sunshine, you know that?"

The Wanderer didn't answer.

"Where's your friend? I'm glad to have you guys around. We need the help."

"I think we're both moving on after this."

"Really? You've got to be fucking kidding me."

"There's more at stake here, Jackrum." The Wanderer explained. "I told you before, he thinks the muties have found a way to breed without taking captives. I have to find their nest and wipe them out. I can't let them overrun the Wasteland."

"I got news for you, kid: They already have."

"Nevertheless."

Jackrum's mouth twisted sourly. There was no way to argue with 'nevertheless'.

"As long as they are reliant on us for breeding, there is still some hope."

"Joy. Anything else?"

"Yes. We're setting up an orbital strike. I'm going to try to take out the Behemoths and give you guys a fighting chance."

Jackrum turned. "An orbital strike?"

The Wanderer nodded. "The target has to be painted by hand, though. Which means-"

"Someone's going to have to sneak right into D.C. to deliver the payload." Jackrum frowned. "You?"

"It might be the only chance we've got."

"We'd have a much stronger chance if we were to contact the Enclave."

Howlett responded immediately. "Absolutely not. They have no business in this Wasteland."

"I don't care what you say. We need the firepower."

"Do what you want, but I will kill them if I see them. No matter who's side they're on." The Wanderer turned and began to walk away.

"Big mistake, kid! You know what happens to young men who hold too tightly onto useless grudges?"

Fletcher halted and glared at him.

"They forget what life's about, and turn into angry cynical bastards with no friends and no home."

"And then they join the Talon Company!" The Wanderer answered back before his stealthsuit activated and he melted into the setting sun.

Jackrum turned back to the field of stinking human bodies, and reflectively watched the carrion birds, high in the sky, circling their latest meal. After a few moments, he started to chuckle.

* * *

><p>No sooner had Jason cleared the fields on mutant dead, than he ran across Narg. Fort Bannister was still in sight, but shrinking rapidly into the horizon. The armoured giant was leaning against an enormous hunk of concrete. His Avenger Minigun had been hoisted up onto his back, and his white assault rifle was hanging loosely from one hand.<p>

"Where're you headed, kid?"

"East. Towards D.C."

Narg fell into step behind him. "You didn't come find me after the battle."

"Did I hurt your feelings?"

"You wish."

"Did you get the information off of that mutant general?"

Narg nodded. "The breeding pens are in vault 87."

Jason turned southward, cringing as he considered the possibilities "What about Little Lamplight?" he asked.

"What about it? Either they're dead or they're not. If they aren't, I'd get'em someplace safe."

Jason's grip on his Xuanlong assault rifle tightened. "_Right._"

"Ain't you forgetting something, Kiddo?" Narg asked.

"What?"

The armoured man produced the laser detonator he had shown the Wanderer after their first encounter. He said: "I'm headed north to set up the nukes. They'll be ready by the time you get back. Then I'll give this to you and you can head into D.C.."

Jason nodded slowly. "And then?"

Narg shrugged. "Stick around, maybe? Help that Jackrum guy. This is a pretty fun way to waste a week."

The Wanderer glared at him, "We're fighting for our home."

"I'm not."

"So what's your stake in all this?"

"If you win, I figure you're going to owe me." Narg grinned. "Big time."

"And there it is." Jason nodded slowly. "Most people around can't tie their own shoes. What could_ you _possibly want help with?"

"With your skill set? Practically anything. Just deal with the Nest. The nukes will be ready by the time you get out. If you get out." the giant turned to leave, walking north toward the dead forests and irradiated mountains. Jason was tempted to follow, but the nagging thoughts of Little Lamplight dragged his own feet south.

* * *

><p><strong>With Sarah's scene, I really wanted to reinforce that Point Lookout screwed her up. Royally. <strong>

**I am moving out as of June 1. I have my own apartment and whatnot, soooo…. Yeah. This would mean more if I were moving faster with this story, but my internet may be down for a little while.**


	24. Chapter 24

Mutatis Mutandis 24

The mutant fell to the ground, a three-round cluster in the back of its head. Its four companions, far too slow on the uptake, joined it in a matter of seconds. Jason lowered the Perforator and allowed himself a smile. Superior speed had always been one of his strongest advantages over the mutants, and his journey westward had soon found him nipping at the heels of stragglers from the routed mutant army. He had killed thirteen already, and was running out of targets; the smarter ones had run south, removing themselves from his path. He was going to have to hunt them later. It was also long past time he checked on Tenpenny Tower. How well could that building have fared? Had it undergone a siege as well?

The Western half of the capital wasteland was a relatively clear place. It had never seen much activity aside from the occasional Radscorpiom, or Yao Guai. Even the muties tended to leave it alone most of the time. There was nothing of value there. Not on the surface, anyway. Yet it was one of Jason's favorite wandering spots. He enjoyed the solitude provided by the remote location, yet it lacked the constant danger of the Northern wilderness. So long as one kept an eye out and stayed off the main roads, it was very nearly safe. As safe as any place outside a settlement could be.

It was a good place to be if one wanted to remain out of the spotlight. Perfect for the quieter raider bands, the Lone Wanderer, and the children of Little Lamplight.

He had stumbled upon Little Lamplight almost a year out of the vault. He had been in pursuit of the G.E.C.K. at the time, but the place had fascinated him. Before the war, it had been a tourist attraction offering spelunking opportunities, a small museum, and even a restaurant area, all underground. The theme park had a certain charm to it, and it had made fairly good money off of both tourists and local residents.

After the bombs dropped, the cave had been annexed by the school children caught there. They had made it a home. Adults weren't usually allowed, yet they managed to keep their numbers up by feeding off of what the Raiders left behind.

The Anarchist lifestyle which the Raiders followed meant that nearly everything was allowed, including rape and sex whenever and wherever the participants felt like acting on their impulses. The lack of protection inevitably led to pregnancies. The lack of proper care inevitably led to the deaths of the mothers, their children, or both. Yet every so often a child would survive. Babies were a burden, and if they weren't killed by their parents, they were discarded. Thrown in dumpsters, or simply laid down in the wasteland for the nearest Yao Guai to chew on. Sometimes the scouts of Little Lamplight made it there first. It didn't matter to the raiders. All they knew was that the problem had vanished into the night.

The hardiness of Little Lamplight's inhabitants impressed Jason. They were foul-mouthed, foul-smelling, and ill-dressed. Yet they had a special sort of grit and determination which even many adults in the Wasteland lacked. The children lacked the numbers and strength to take most of the Wasteland's dangers head-on. They had found ways to work around it instead, and Jason had learned a thing of two about stealth from them.

The cave's entranceway looked clear enough, though that didn't mean much; if the mutants had come for the children, they would have entered through Murder Pass, the labyrinthine cave system connecting Little Lamplight to Vault 87. There were a few windswept mutant footprints in the sand-covered parking lot outside. It looked as if their patrols had passed by without any investigation.

He headed down the dusty pathway and gently slid the wooden door open, keeping his rifle down; the kids were apt to shoot most visitors, and he hated getting shot. They kept the immediate section of tunnel dark, so that passersby would remain unaware of their cave hideout. Jason did not start to worry until he found the first lamppost. The lantern was out. Normally they were kept lit, aided by the string of Christmas lights hanging from the ceiling. Either they were having generator issues, or something more sinister was happening.

Being the cautious fighter he was, Jason immediately assumed the latter and checked his weapons. The Lone Wanderer was no stranger to darkness. He owned the night, as pompous as that sounded. Hunting in the dark was his favorite violent activity, and he knew how to move silently. He kept his Perforator assault rifle up and melted into the shadows, following the narrow tunnel into the entry chamber, where his fears were confirmed. All the lamps were out, save for a slow-burning fire in one corner, throwing red light and dancing shadows across the nearby walls. The Lamplight gate, the Children's final defense, had been bashed to pieces. Half of it was dangling awkwardly by its single remaining hoist chain. Their office building was a pile of warm charcoal.

Jason stayed silent for a few seconds, listening to the dull white noise of the cave, and the crackling of the fire. Water dripped in the distance, but there was something more there. A pattering noise resembling barefooted children. It was moving very quickly, and faded to echo before he could make out anything further.

* * *

><p>He moved further into the cave system, searching cautiously for the children, and trying to prepare himself for the worst. As he moved, that scrabbling echo moved as well, never quite fading away. The walls pressed in upon him as he reached a stalagmite-dotted intersection. The light was faint, and he could barely make out the signs directing him to either the Great Chamber, or the Souvenir Shop.<p>

A strange pattern caught his eye. Impaled on one of the lower stalagmites was a long piece of cloth. The sleeve was from a set of pyjamas. By holding it up against the light, he could just make out the pattern of tiny starships which dotted the dirty, bloodstained fabric. Jason gritted his teeth and reconsidered his options. The Shop was closer to Murder Pass, and his ultimate goal of Vault 87, but he couldn't leave without finding out what happened to the children. He decided to take the left path to the Lamplighter's central cavern, dodging his way through the darkness.

A short trek later brought him upon the flooded chamber. In the past, it had been converted to a sort of underground café where all the children had gathered to eat and drink and carouse. They had built pontoon platforms to rest on the surface of the pools. All that remained were a few errant scraps of wood, tapping gently against the rocky walls of the chamber.

Now patches of glowing moss dotted the ceiling, lending light to the still waters of the cavern. The pools were bottomless black pits. Who knew how large they were. For all Jason knew, there was an entire flooded cave system scattered across the wasteland. The D.C. area was certainly porous enough to allow it. Was he only seeing the tip of the iceberg?

The only route to the other side was a narrow bridge, crossing the frigid waters, and Jason felt his apprehension grow as he noted the slight ripples spreading from some shadowy place on the far side of the flooded chamber. That faint scrabbling noise was joined by the sound of water lapping at the edges of the narrow bridge.

Jason lowered his assault rifle and shouldered it, pulling out his sawed-off shotgun instead. He took a few cautious steps out onto the narrow bridge. Off to his left a few bubbles rose to the pond's still surface, and popped. He froze, shotgun fixed on that location. Counting to one-hundred, he relaxed, ever-so-slightly, and took a few more steps forward.

His foot crunched on something plastic. Keeping his shotgun leveled at the dark waters, he bent to one knee and felt for the object. It was a pair of tiny children's spelunking goggles, worn by more than a few of the Little Lamplighters.

Behind him, something splashed, spattering frigid droplets across the bridge. Reflexively, Jason turned and blasted at the epicenter, giving it both barrels. All at once, the water grew still, allowing the echoes to fade away. The scrabbling noise on the edge of hearing ceased as well.

Jason took a deep breath, and let it out, searching the impenetrable darkness for a target.

Suddenly, the entire bridge jerked sideways, very nearly throwing him into the pool. It began to sink, and the turbulent waters slithered towards him across the slick stone surface. Caught at the center of the rapidly shrinking bridge, Jason bolted for the far end as fast as he could. The stone structure began to slide sideways, twisting, making balance on the slippery stone even more difficult. Five feet from the far end, his ankles were underwater, and something else, something slippery, was closing around them, trying to catch him and drag him to the depths below. As his footing slipped away, Jason threw all of his strength into a desperate leap for the far bank.

He landed on the edge of the stone platform and scrambled to safety, listening to the frothing water as it sucked the bridge into oblivion. He twisted around onto his back, feeling the rough stone scratch his duster, and pointed his shotgun at the water, which once again was growing unnaturally still.

Breathing hard, he rose to his feet, keepin g a close eye on the bottomless pools. Stepping carefully, he backed his way up the tunnel's slope and away from the flooded chamber.

* * *

><p>A foul stench swept through the corridor as he neared the largest cavern. The scrabbling noise from earlier was joined with something leathery. More faint, yet no less foreboding. As was the new standard, there were no human light sources left in the great chamber. Only the luminescent fungal growths scattered along the walls, granting the enormous space no more than a sense of size, and vague shape. Most of the rope bridges which the children had erected had fallen to the floor of the cavern, and Jason crouched at the edge of what was now a rather steep drop. A fungal growth at his knee threw faint light into the darkness, and he peered out over the escarpment. The leathery fluttering was particularly pronounced on the roof of the cave, and was accompanied by a rapid clicking noise which Jason had never heard before anywhere in the wasteland.<p>

A few pebbles clattered down across the fungal patch to his right, accompanied by a small amount of dust. Very slowly, Jason turned his gaze upwards to the source of the disturbance, less than two feet away.

A humanoid creature was perched on the upwards curve of the wall, barely visible in the bleak light. Its wide, sunken eyes were pale, flecked with orange and virulent green. The skin was a rotten brown color, dry and pitted. Almost mummified. The thing bared a set of yellowing teeth and screeched at him. The sound was an unpleasant parping noise, higher in pitch than a mole rat's bark, but containing far more menace.

The thing scrabbled easily along the impossible inclines of the narrow cave, neck twisting at unnatural angles to keep him in view. It moved in a strange twitching motion, as if not fully in control of its own muscles. As it moved, Jason very carefully rose to his feet, shifting backwards as slowly as he dared, keeping his gaze locked on the new creature. As he moved, he shrugged off his silenced rifle, quietly training it on the new threat.

Noting the movement, the thing parped at him again and unfolded, sticking straight out from the wall, almost parallel to the ground. It spreading its arms wide, as if trying to scare him off, revealing the wing-like leathery growths connecting its spindly forearms to its bulbous pelvis.

Jason fire two shots from the hip, the first ripping a wide hole the delicate wing-like growth under creature's shoulder, the second through its skinny chest. Its body crumpled to the ground. Jason grabbed it by the foot and dragged it some distance back down the tunnel, listening carefully in case the leathery noise followed him. The most worrying aspect of the entire encounter was the fact that the thing had managed to move so close to him without alerting him.

A far closer examination of the corpse revealed plenty more strange aspects of the creature's biology. Its eyes, though very wide were sunken far into the skull. In combination with the snout-like nose, dried brown skin, and thin drawn-back lips, it looked almost vampiric in nature. Small horns had emerged in strange formations around the crown of the creature's skull, erupting through puckered volcanic sores in its skin. He had at first assumed it bald, but there were several wispy blond hairs, which dangled down the back of the creature's neck.

Its feet were equally as disturbing. The pad of each foot was almost round and palm-like, and the beast's toes had lengthened and spread, revealing how the thing had been able to climb the cave system's steeply angled walls with such incredible ease and dexterity.

Having spent the necessary time getting to know this latest obstacle, Jason found himself feeling less confident about what awaited him in the vault. How many of these things were there? What exactly had tried to kill him in the flooded chamber? Using the FEV II virus, what other new horrors had the Supermutants added to the world, and where were the children of Little Lamplight?

Dead, more than likely. Or perhaps they had been injected with the virus. Could children survive that? What would happen to them?

He moved forward and once again reached the central chamber. He kneeled at the edge of the tunnel's fifteen-foot high exit, and scanned the chamber. He could hear the flapping of a multitude of those leathery winglets, and as his eyes readjusted to the darkness, he could make out countless shapes flitting back and forth, hanging from the ceiling and barking at one another, communicating in the pitch darkness.

He heard the faintest scrambling noise near the ceiling behind him. he learned quickly, and the extra caution had paid off. He whipped around, lying flat on his back with his rifle pointed up at the ceiling. He had no time to aim, the thing swooped out of the darkness far too fast to allow for that. It knocked his weapon out of the way, but his combat knife was already entering its gut and spilling its innards all over the cave floor. He grabbed it by the throat to hold it at bay as it gnashed at him with pointed teeth. The thing howled in pain as he kept cutting, and the call was answered by a symphony of the gliding devils.

Jason tossed it over the edge of the cliff, into the central cavern. He scrambled to his feet and felt sharp teeth bite into his shoulder. Moving back down the tunnel, he jammed his combat knife into the creature's eye and wrestled its corpse off of him.

The things came crawling from the darkness, swarming towards him down the narrow corridor. They were crawling on the walls and the ceiling, and running along the ground with a strange, ape-like gait. Occasionally they would leap into the air and spread their arms, swooping towards him at high speed. As he ran, through the darkness, he flicked on his Pipboy light. His pursuers recoiled for four seconds, buying him six headshots and a few feet of gained ground.

Realizing that he did not have the firepower necessary to drive his enemies back, Jason dug at his belt for a fragmentation grenade. He usually carried two or three in case of emergencies, and this certainly qualified as one. Working with one hand, he pulled the pins and tossed the two explosives towards the swarm, moving several feet backwards and counting in his head, all the while keeping up a steady fire to slow the swarm's advance.

At three seconds, he dove for the cave floor, spilling out onto the rocky shore of the flooded chamber. Behind him, there was a flash of light and two moist explosions which set the entire cave system ringing. Dismembered limbs and ichor rained out of the narrow corridor, splashing into the still waters of the flooded chamber. They were shortly followed by three dozen of the little devils, driven to a mad frenzy by the sudden noise and light.

The cold waters responded in kind, and began to churn and froth with terrible purpose. A low vocal rumble could be heard, as if the ancient stones themselves had grown an angry voice. The high-pitched parping of the bat-like cretins were suddenly punctuated with cries of pain.

Jason could not make out what was happening on the water's surface, but the number of winged devils flitting about above it were growing slimmer by the moment as bodies either dropped, or were snatched into the abyss by the appendages of the unseen leviathan. The cold waters had turned red with blood. The Wanderer did not stay to see the outcome of the sudden primeval battle. Instead he used it as a distraction, allowing him passage through Little Lamplight's cavern, and into Murder Pass. As he ventured further into the hostile darkness, the same sound he had heard at the entrance returned. The pattering of hundreds of tiny feet. He somehow got the feeling that the horrors dwelling in Little Lamplight were just the beginning.

* * *

><p><strong>This is one of a two-parter. expect this story to earn its M rating next chappy.<strong>


	25. Chapter 25

Mutatis Mutandis 25

The gate to Murder Pass was in worse shape than the entrance gate. A charging rhinoceros could not have done a better job of bringing it to ruination. The gaping tunnels beyond were pitch black, echoing with the strange pattering noise that Jason had been pursuing since he had first entered Little Lamplight.

Aware that the creatures he had encountered before were probably only the tip of the iceberg, Jason moved forward with extra caution. He had long since memorized the layout of Murder Pass. The cave system lying between Little Lamplight and the Supermutants' home was an enormous three dimensional maze of dead-ends, cave-ins, long drops, and primitive wooden bridges. Not an ideal place for fighting. The average adventurer was more likely to be chased down like a rodent until the mutants finally cornered and slaughtered him. Thankfully, Jason was anything but average, and he had negotiated the treacherous path many times before.

The pattering noise increased the further he moved into the maze. It had started as a background noise, but it very quickly progressed to the point at which he could hear it all around him, as if it were in the very walls themselves.

And it was following him, building momentum as it went.

He reached the rope bridge after two and a half agonizing minutes of looking over his own shoulder. Unlike Little Lamplight, Murder Pass was for the most part without the benefit of the glowing fungus. Jason was forced to navigate by memory for the most part. He reached a rope bridge strung across a wide gap in the tunnel. It was the same bridge he had crossed a hundred times before. Below was a darkened pit, but he didn't dare turn on his Pipboy light; staying hidden was key to survival.

Stepping carefully, he made his way across, coming to a halt whenever the creaking of the ancient slats grew too loud. The pattering noise grew to a crescendo as he passed over the pit. He glanced down between the slats and witnessed the way the floor seemed to curl, slither and sway in the darkness, as if it were itself alive.

The pattering noise grew louder the further he proceeded across the bridge and down the tunnel. Suddenly it stopped, leaving only that strange white noise which all caverns shared. Off in the distance, drops of water fell slowly into an unseen pool. Jason stopped as well, listening closely to the darkness. He could hear something. A faint noise. Air. Breathing, less than ten feet ahead of him. The cave ahead was pitch black. Yet somehow, outlined more by his imagination and that primal sixth sense he had spent years honing and fine-tuning than by actual sight, he could sense a shape in the emptiness. Gingerly, Jason crouched and shouldered his Perforator. Trusting the weapon's suppressor to hide him, just as he had so many times before, he fired two probing shots into the impenetrable darkness. One pinged off a distant rock in the tunnel's wall. The other hit something fleshy. Leathery.

A low, dangerous growl echoed along the narrow corridor. It was an unsettlingly deep rolling noise. Then, to his astonished bewilderment, the darkness fired back. Not a bullet, but a clod of foul scum. The projectile arced through the air and hit him in the shoulder. It immediately began to froth and smoke, eating its way through his duster and burning his skin where it seeped through to make contact. He heard his Geiger counter begin to tick rapidly, but Jason was far more concerned with the startling pain which made him cry out.

His position compromised anyway, he fought for control and lifted his smoldering arm, flicking on his Pipboy light.

A monstrosity the likes of which he had never seen before skittered out of the darkness. A sense of horror gripped him as he realized where the sound of dozens of pattering feet had come from. The creature stood nearly four and a half feet in height. It was vaguely humanoid, and colored in light browns. At least, its upper body was. It had a bulging, misshapen human torso and a human head, the drooping, malformed face caught in a rictus of agony.

Below the waist, however, everything human about the creature vanished. While retaining human skin tones, its body shape was far more similar to that of a centipede. Dozens of thick arms jutted out both sides of a low set, densely-packed slab of flesh, rippling with muscle. Each leg ended in a stubby human hand, gripping the stone floor with broken, dirty fingernails. As he watched, the creature's chest warped and winnowed, rippling as its mouth gaped open, far wider than any human being could ever hope to match. From deep within its throat, out slithered three long slimy tentacles, reaching for him.

It skittered forward gibbering, gurgling, gagging and slobbering as those tendrils waved ahead of it; the disgusting feelers of a car-sized insect from a nightmare realm somewhere far beyond Jason's worst fears and most pessimistic expectations

Devoid of all feelings save for horror and disgust, Jason emptied the rest of his clip into the creature, taking pleasure in the bloody string of craters the action left in its leathery skin. The thing responded in kind, its tentacles curling away from their center like a tortured flower in bloom. A fourth, shorter tentacle emerged, an orifice at the tip opening and closing, puckering up with a disgusting slurping noise. It jerked for a moment, and spat another gob of the foul goo at him.

Jason side-stepped the horrific projectile and heard it impact something other than stone. He snapped around, his meager light revealing two more of the repulsive creatures sneaking up from behind. More were pouring over the edge of the pit, scampering over the rope bridge. One of them had halted, screeching as it was temporarily paralyzed by the pain of its brother's projectile. Pattering feet approached at high speed. Jason dodged left and rolled as the first creature scampered along the wall towards him. he bolted past it, the feelers narrowly missing his head.

As he moved it chased him, arching over the ceiling and back down the other side, those tentacles still feeling their way along. He ran down the passage as fast as his legs could carry him, all stealth forgotten in the threat of this new horror.

The pattering followed, and he fired blindly behind him as he ran through the tunnels. Every new bullet struck with the same leathery noise as the last; the creatures were crawling all over the tunnel behind him, washing forward in a great churning wave of mutant flesh. They were winding along the floor, hanging from the walls and slithering along the ceiling, the fingers on each of their dozens of hands finding purchase on the rough stone and digging in.

Gobs of corrosive phlegm hit the walls and floor ahead of him, droplets spattering across his duster, slowly burning it to pieces. A small amount hit the back of his knee, forcing him to limp, but he fought onwards. The creatures were well muscled, and merciless. If he stopped, he wasn't sure how much damage they would cause him. How long the delay would be. Perhaps it would be too much for his little perk to handle, and he would actually die. On top of that, the creatures were just damned terrifying and he did not want to be anywhere near them.

The tunnel began to branch off left and right, and Jason came to the sudden realization that in the rush, he may have missed his turn. He had no idea where this current path would lead, only that the path behind him was shut. He turned a corner at random and the floor opened up, spilling him down a steep slope. His feet slipped out from under him, sending him rolling uncontrollably. The cave blurred around him as he rolled, the world forming into a directionless gray morass. Jason was only aware of the pain of every bump, some of them large enough to send him airborne for a short time. It was all he could do to keep his weapons with him. Somewhere along the line, an underground stream had joined with his chute, the water droplets flying and splashing around him as he fell. Jason tried desperately to get a grip on something solid, but it was all far too wet. There was the sound of rushing water and he sensed a final change in the slope's gradient. The steeper angle sent him speeding up before flying off an edge of some sort, following the water droplets.

* * *

><p>Jason landed in a crumpled heap, finally coming to a standstill on the floor of an enormous underground culvert He lay there for a little while, letting the pain fade. He was lying face down in a pool of water. It was barely an inch deep, but it was freezing cold, and he shivered, feeling it soak through his clothes. Jason groaned and rolled over onto his back, feeling for his weapons. His sawed-off was missing, as was the sniper rifle. However he still had the Xuanlong, his Perforator, and his combat knife. He sat up, taking stock. A few of his supplies were missing, two stim-packs had been smashed, and a sack of rad-away had broken open during the fall, the thick liquid was spread all over his right leg. The wound on his shoulder where the swooping little demon had bitten in was itching madly, but this was a normal sensation for him. it was a byproduct of the rapid healing. As a matter of fact, most of his body was undergoing the same process as it recovered from both the acid burns and the long fall. He sat patiently waiting for it to heal, listening as the gentle ticking of his Geiger counter echoed off of the cavern walls. He watched the faint green light reflecting off of the pools of water, throwing waving lines across the ceiling.<p>

He frowned. There was no fungus around. No light source for the water to reflect from. So where was it coming from? Groaning, he rose to his feet and took a proper look around. The chamber was enormous, nearly as large in diameter as Megaton's crater, though the ceiling was only about twenty feet high. Naturally formed pillars and stone columns dotted the chamber where descending stalactites had met the stalagmites growing from the cavern floor. Water trickled down into the pool from a large opening about fifteen feet above his head. The same chute he himself had fallen out of, Jason decided. He took a step towards the edge of the pool and frowned, watching glowing green ripples spread from the toe of his combat boot. He took a few mores steps forward until he reached the edge of the pool. Then he turned and bent down to give the liquid a proper examination. The water… it was glowing slightly, throwing that faint green light across the cavern walls. It was not the water itself which was glowing, but rather the thin chemical film floating on top. The chemical was a foul and oily substance which stained his fingers.

A few pebbles tumbled from another nearby chute, followed by a familiar and unwelcome gibbering noise. A few seconds later one of the creatures which had accosted him in the tunnels above came flying out. Possessing as much control over its trajectory as he had, it landed on a particularly sharp stalagmite. It lay there, impaled on the cold stone, twitched wildly. The creature's horrific tongue rippled out towards him, but it was too far away to reach its target. He watched it struggle and suffer for a few seconds –long enough to insure that it wasn't going to be a problem- then went back to staring at the water.

The FEV virus, he could only assume. Probably the FEV II. That meant the mutants had been putting it in the water supply. They'd poisoned the entire section of the wasteland. Who knew how far the corruption had spread. All of these strange new creatures were the direct result. Had the children drunk it? Had they been changed? Were they perhaps the swooping demons? He hadn't recognized any of them, but he had not really been looking either. And what on earth had made those centipede creatures?

No wonder Narg had come all the way out east to deal with this. Where had they acquired something so potently dangerous? The idea of a mutant scientist coming up with something like this was laughable, but so were many other things Jason had thought about muties, and many of those had been proven horribly wrong recently.

Somewhere in the darkness, pebbles ground against the cavern floor. Darkness swallowed Jason, and he sank into the shadows, watching closely.

A figure stepped into view, emerging from the darkness. It was humanoid at least, colored in deep greens and browns. The crown of its skull had the same horns as the swooping creatures in Lamplight caverns, but it was otherwise human. Jason could make out the flash of glowing green eyes, matching the light of the water. he raised his rifle, intending to get a better look through the scope. Immediately, the creature's gaze snapped over to search the darkness for him. Jason froze, keeping still as a statue, even as the creature took a few steps in his direction, its eyes searching every crack and crevice. Its gaze passed over him, lingering on him for a heart-stopping moment. Then, satisfied that it was alone, it moved off towards the pool, passing behind a stone pillar… And it failed to reappear on the other side. Jason frowned and rose, repositioning to get a different angle. He searched the pool's area, listening carefully to the sounds beyond the cave's tiny echoing waterfall. The creature was nowhere to be seen, nor heard, and he took a few quiet steps forward, searching further still.

Without warning, a pair of green eyes opened less than two feet to his left. Jason reacted on instinct, his left hand thrusting out with his combat knife, aimed straight at its throat. The thing slapped his first strike aside with a forceful block that sent Jason's knife skittering into the darkness. It followed up immediately, its left hand closing around the barrel of the Perforator even as its knee came up between his legs. Blinding pain paralyzed Jason, making his knees weaken and give even as both of his hands shot downwards reflexively. He shut his eyes, his mouth hanging open as he let out a sharp gasp.

The thing's knee came up yet again to greet his chin, and the blow spilled him like a ragdoll onto the cave floor. The thing stepped daintily around his prone form, growling triumphantly as it went. It waited patiently for him to recover somewhat from the mind-bending pain, carefully handling the Perforator.

Jason took a few deep breaths and glared up defiantly at his assailant, hating it for taking him by surprise. The thing was lanky and thin, though its knotted muscles were far too well developed to be trifled with, as the Wanderer had just discovered. It was nude, and …male. Jason's eyes widened as he realized he was staring at the next generation of mutant. The FEV II strain abomination. A male supermutant. Narg had been right: they were breeding down here!

The creature smiled down at him. It took the Perforator in both hands, one on the trigger mechanism, the other on the barrel, and twisted. Wood cracked and splintered. Jason gritted his teeth as the barrel twisted and snapped. Next came the bolt mechanism. Metal crumpled and withered under the abomination's patient ministrations. All the while it kept its eyes locked on his, watching his reactions as it destroyed his prized possession. Its final act was to snap the scope in half. Then it tossed the pile of scrap metal at his feet. It smiled at him again, the expression gloating and malicious. Jason smiled back and emptied a dozen 5.56mm Xuanlong assault rifle rounds into the creature's crotch.

As it doubled over, howling, he sprang forward. Rage blinded him. His questing grip found the silencer on the tip of the Perforator's barrel. He jammed the jagged edge of the ruined barrel into the creature's throat, roaring with rage as he did so. He drove them the abomination backwards into the nearest pillar, stabbing it again and again with the ruined remains of his assault rifle.

The abomination fought back, even as blood poured out of the gaping wound in its throat. It caught his wrist in a death grip and twisted, forcing the makeshift weapon away. Its other hand landed with a hammer strike on his collarbone, breaking it. As an afterthought it slammed its horned skull into his face, breaking his nose and leaving long gashes across his forehead. The creature drew both of its hands back and struck outwards, hitting him in the gut with a forceful double-blow. Jason flew backwards and landed with a splash in a nearby puddle.

Yet the creature wasn't done. It rushed forward with an impossible speed, picking him up and ramming him through one of the thin stone pillars. It kept going, slamming him into a nearby wall and landing six painful blows around his head and chest. Then it lifted him clear into the air and brought him down on the broken stalagmite pillar. Jason felt the tip of the stone spike pierce into his back, ripping through his insides to come poking out near his belly button. His vision swam and the waking world faded in and out.

The abomination's fingers scrambled at his throat, trying to throttle him. Yet they too were losing strength. The thing's attacks were growing weaker and uncoordinated as the moments passed. The blood loss and internal damage was finally taking its toll, and Jason watched in a pain-induced haze as it slowly slid past him and dropped to the ground, growling out a last hate-filled breath as it died.

The Wanderer pawed uselessly at the stone pillar protruding from his chest, but he no longer had the strength, nor the leverage to pull himself out. Was this where he died? How long would his perks keep him from going over the brink? Mortal fear, something he hadn't truly experienced in close to four years, swept through him, even as he blacked out, trapped and wounded somewhere in the bowels of the Capital Wasteland.

* * *

><p><strong>So I'm bending cannon a little bit. I realized I had never mentioned the Centaurs before. Decided to take the opportunity to introduce them as an entirely new enemy. I don't actually think about them much when I am playing. They're just one more thing to shoot. But wouldn't it be horrifying to run into one in real life? My god those things are scary. Go take a close look at one the next time you play Fallout 3. <strong>**I don't believe an FEV injection which failed to create a proper Supermutant would still produce something**_** that**_** combat viable, so I'm giving that creature to this series' FEV II virius.**

**Murder Pass has been expanded a little bit. I wanted it to feel more maze-like and wild than it was in-game. Plenty of inspiration shamelessly liberated from a particular level of Metro: Last Light. You guys know which one I'm thinking of. That level is where I feel Bethesda had intended to go with that location anyway.**

**as for the Mk II mutant, i wanted it to be tough, but not invincible.**


	26. Chapter 26

Mutatis Mutandis 26

Jackrum set down his binoculars and rubbed the back of his neck. "This is a terrible plan, Sergeant Turner.

"It's your plan, sir."

"Doesn't mean it isn't terrible."

"You said it first, sir."

Jackrum grinned to himself. "Turner, you become any more of a smartass, and-"

"I'll be in direct competition with you, sir. Yes, I know." The kid said absentmindedly, peering at their target through his own set of binoculars. "But my momma always said go big or go home."

"A mum like that and all you did with your life was join the Talon Company?"

"And now I'm saving the wasteland." The young man replied. "One terrible plan at a time. Doesn't get much bigger than that."

"Fair enough. Still a bad plan though." Jackrum grunted. He sighed and glanced back along the long line of Talon Company soldiers. "Alright, boys, let's get it done… and we'll just have to hope the Wanderer doesn't throttle us with our own small intestines for it."

"Do we have a backup plan, sir?"

"We're at plan C already, Turner. This is the backup plan."

* * *

><p>Lieutenant Samantha Summers of the East Coast Enclave Remnants was worried. In the past four days, her tiny encampment had been forced to fend off eleven Supermutant attacks. Usually those numbers were reversed. Her small band had been sent to monitor the ongoing carnage, and to salvage anything of value they could from the resulting mess. She stared down at her orders again, and tried not to wonder about her superior officer's sanity. Perhaps he thought an opportunity had opened up. Or perhaps he was scrounging desperately for something to impress the bosses back west. Afterall, ever since the Landcrawler's explosion, the Enclave had been forced to retreat from the Wasteland with their tail between their legs.<p>

Her team of specialists had been sent back for a particular piece of salvage: A human being. She held up the flimsy piece of paper and reread the target's profile.

_Subject: Jason Howlett, alias the Lone Wanderer _

_Age: Estimated by eyewitness accounts to be between twenty and twenty-five. _

_Description: Blonde hair, blue eyes. height, 5'6"._

_Favored garb: Duster and red bandana, outfit apparently a 'Symbol of Hope' for the native population. _

_History: Born in Vault 101. Son of James Howlett, the Wastelander who built Project Purity. Went feral upon Father's death at hands of Colonel Augustus Autumn. Allied with Brotherhood of Steel and other Wasteland factions in order to steal Project Purity and encourage hostile action against Enclave forces.._

_Spent several years wandering the Wasteland – No specific data._

_Local lore claims he is invulnerable – No supporting evidence._

_May be a mutant – No supporting evidence._

_Favored weapons (based on post-incident forensic analysis):_

_Combat knife_

_Assault rifle_

_Railroad spikes. Used mostly for barbaric ceremonial practice of __**crucifying captured Enclave personnel**__._

_Place of Residence: Wasteland settlement known as Megaton. Note: Attacks against Howlett's home deemed too risky- reasonable fear of strong retribution. Household investigated once. Agent's throat ripped out by vicious canine security system. Body found crucified in nearest Enclave encampment (all personnel KIA. Suspected culprit- Jason Howlett)._

_**To all Enclave personnel: Jason Howlett is considered extremely hostile, and excessively dangerous. To be shot on sight, body burned.**_

_**Warning: All enclave personnel must exercise extreme caution.**__ Howlett's hatred of the Enclave is irrational and merciless. No camp has ever survived an attack by Jason Howlett. Only one enclave member has ever survived contact with Jason Howlett. __**IF SEEN, DO NOT APPROACH**__. Jason Howlett has been known to __**lure**__ Enclave personnel into deadly traps using various means from promises of advanced technological discoveries to valuable wasteland specimens __**to promising his own capture and destruction.**__ High casualty rates have resulted in many unconfirmed kills. Numbers listed below are estimates based on post-incident forensic analysis. _

_Note: Practice of Post-Incident Forensic Investigation was halted after realization that Jason Howlett uses slaughtered enclave outposts as bait for both Rescue and Forensic Analysis teams. __**Subject does not recognize differences between combative and non-combative roles for Enclave Personnel. Administrative staff are not safe! Honorable Rules of Engagement are not respected by subject. **_

_Number of enclave Personnel suspected killed by Jason Howlett:311 (Including President John Henry Eden and Colonel Augusts Autumn.)_

_Number of Enclave soldiers confirmed killed by Jason Howlett:27 (note: kills confirmed by unreliable local sources. No Enclave member has ever survived an encounter long enough to confirm a comrade's death at the hands of Jason Howlett. Subject leaves no survivors.)_

_Estimated Value in US dollars of Enclave property damaged, destroyed, or stolen by Jason Howlett: $78, 000,000. Including 1 Landcrawler, 32 Vertibirds, 274(estimated) sets of Power Armour, Assorted small arms. Scientific equipment and materials, data, captured specimens, etc…_

_In summary, Jason Howlett, A.K.A. the Lone Wanderer is to be considered an extremely dangerous enemy of the United States Government. Subject is to be approached only with extreme caution. __**Lethal Force recommended.**_

_If encountered, please capture subject, dead or alive, and return to current Enclave base of operations. If risk involved in capturing or killing Jason Howlett is for any reason deemed too high, Enclave personnel are ordered to retreat. Note: 'Risk' as to be determined contextually by Enclave personnel engaging subject._

_Signed, _

_Major Bartholomew Beverly, in Lieu of Colonel Autumn and President John Henry Eden._

_God Bless America._

Of course, every Enclave member who even had the slightest chance of ever doing a tour in the Wasteland was briefed on the Lone Wanderer. They all had this exact profile memorized. Yet the profile told her nothing. It did not tell her how exactly one young man managed time and time again to overpower entire enclave fortifications. How exactly he was able to subdue fully armoured soldiers using only primitive weaponry. How he had been able to infiltrate and blow up the Landcrawler.

The horror stories told around the mess hall tables were somewhat more helpful, most painting the picture of a vengeful ghost who struck without mercy, slaughtering entire campsites in an instant. The forensics supported this claim, oddly enough. Entire squads has been found dead, facing all different directions within the confines of their campsites. Officers were more often than not slumped over their desks, coffee cups half full, and cigarettes which had burned down to the stub. Bodies of enclave soldiers whose lives had ended without warning, lying in standard patrol patterns. It all spoke to a man who struck with stealth and precision, avoiding sloppy firefights and preventing himself from being forced into a direct engagement with superior numbers. The man was clearly more intelligent than the average waster, though that was to be expected; he was of a purer genetic strain, having come from a vault. Although maybe not; in some versions of the story, his father had been granted sanctuary in the vault, which would make the Wanderer as much a wastelander as any other primitive.

As for the stealth, Summers had spent some amount of time considering how one could sneak around well-trained enclave troops. A stealth-boy had to be involved, she felt. Yet the sleeper agents in Rivet City had never witnessed him buying one.

Still… three hundred and eleven. It was a mind-boggling number. The entire Brotherhood of Steel -damn them- had managed to finish off about four-hundred and fifty enclave soldiers in the entire duration of the war.

For one man to end so many lives, and the enclave had nothing to show for it. And Beverly wanted her to _capture _this… man? Especially given the current state of the wasteland? Their little heavily armed band had been in the wasteland for three days, and they had been forced to fend off several supermutant attacks numbering in the dozens. Her ammunition stockpiles, meant to last her for two weeks, was already down thirty-five percent. Her twenty-five man team was down to fifty percent strength, and they'd lost one of their two vertibirds to a mutant with a missile launcher. Never in any of her six tours of duty had she found them this driven. Something was happening further inland. A vertibird had been shot down, but not before it reported the ring of rubble which was formerly the Brotherhood of Steel's headquarters.

"Ma'am." A soldier wearing Hellfire armour stepped up and saluted. "We've got hostiles massing on the hill." She followed his pointed finger and stared up at the crest of the nearest hill. There were indeed a group of very well-armed wastelanders gathering on the hilltop. Most of them were dressed in the Talon Company faction's black combat armour.

"Should we scare them off, Ma'am?"

"They make good forced labour." Suggested another trooper. "We catch a few and they can help us build new vertibirds."

Summers pulled her plasma rifle from her shoulder. "Defensive formation. Rifleman in front, Incinerators behind. I'll get ready to write up _another_ incident report…"

"Uhh… Ma'am. They have a white flag up."

Summers stared. The wastelanders had strung a section of bedsheet on a fencepost, and were waving it back and forth desperately.

"They want to parlay?"

"Can you really negotiate with lower forms of life?" a few members of her squad chuckled. "Would they even understand us?"

"Hold fire." Summers ordered, feeling somewhat relieved. "If the primitives so much as cough, burn them all." Standard procedure was to simply open fire, but a white flag was a white flag. Besides, what was the worst they could possibly do? Dent her armour?

Noting the lack of immediate hostility, two of the wasters broke from the main group and travelled slowly down the hill. One of them was a young mercenary with a sharp look in his eye and a bandaged head. The other was an older man, scarred by conflict and jaded with life. His tired eyes held a bored expression which conveyed very clearly that nothing left in the world could possibly surprise him.

"What do you want, waster?" Summers asked, as they neared the fortifications.

"You in charge here?" the older man asked, eyeing all the energy weapons aimed at him.

"Lieutenant Samantha Summers." She introduced herself.

"Commander Jonathon Rumsfeld." The merc replied, extending his hand for her to shake.

She didn't. "Give me a good reason not to shoot you."

"I have something you may find valuable. I want to make a trade."

"What, bottlecaps?" Summers sneered. "We don't negotiate with sub-humans."

"I find that attitude very offense."

"I don't care, Wastlander."

"Look," said the Waster, "We could have a row. Maybe you'll survive this, and maybe you won't. Not with my snipers on the hilltops around us. But them muties out there will pick up the pieces no matter who wins."

As he spoke, the enclave soldiers surrounding them immediately began searching the wasteland hills for the glint of sniper scopes. The mercenaries above had gotten firmly dug in, and Summers could make out plenty of rocket launchers and miniguns. No quality of power armour could survive a campsite being bathed in that kind of firepower.

The Mercenary continued. "We haven't come to kill you. We've come to ask for your help. Now if I lower my gun, are you going to shoot me?"

"Absolutely." Summers replied without hesitation, mostly to hide the slight worry which had suddenly taken hold. Her subordinates laughed.

"Oh…" The mercenary chewed his lip for a moment. He glanced around at her squad. "Well… thank you for being honest. I so rarely get that in my line of work."

"Picture me surprised… _Mercenary_."

"Sir," The younger merc interrupted them. "Sir, could we please get on with this. The muties are probably on the move…"

"Right…" the Merc nodded at his subordinate. He turned back to Summers. "Young ones, eh? Always in a hurry. But this one's smart. I'm starting to think of him as the son I never had."

"Concentrate fire on the kid." Summers ordered. Immediately, every enclave weapon was pointed at the young waster mercenary, whose eyes went wide.

"Wow. You are… you really don't give an inch, do you?" asked the older man.

"No." Samantha turned her attention to her own troops.

"Open fi-" She ordered.

"I can get you the Wanderer!" the mercenary announced quickly.

Her soldiers hesitated, some of them on the very edge of pulling their triggers.

"Hold fire!" Summers ordered, giving her impudent visitor a searching look. The Wastelanders would say anything to save themselves, but something in the man's expression, a layer of confidence challenged her to call his bluff. It was more than a feeble attempt to stave off a painful death. It was a deliverable promise.

"I can get him in a certain place of your choosing, at a certain time. Past that, you're on your own." The Mercenary told her.

"You know him, then?" Summers inquired.

"Well I doubt he'd come to my rescue or anything." The Mercenary told her, reading her line of thought. "But yeah. I know him. He trusts me a little."

"Once again…" she said dryly.

"Flabbergasting, I know." The Mercenary replied, his tone equally dry. "But the fact is that me and my boys need help with the muties. You help us, we help you."

* * *

><p>This was among the most nerve-wracking endeavors Jackrum had ever undertaken. He encountered the enclave a few times during his tenure as a mercenary. They were formidable opponents, and more often than not, he had been forced to retreat from the area until they left. He had watched them easily tear apart mutant forces, Brotherhood defenders, and even a deathclaw once. Those hellfire soldiers with their giant incinerator weapons had left the Wasteland burning.<p>

And now he was by himself, blindfolded, and being escorted into a Vertibird, well aware that this act could well mean the end of the road for him. Turner had stayed behind to set up the survivors in Evergreen Mills. Jackrum had to admit, the kid had grown into quite a capable leader in his own right. Even so, how did it come to this? Jackrum had been a mercenary once, living from paycheck to paycheck and job to job. Never for most of his life could he ever have imagined having the fate of the entire Wasteland on his shoulders. Since when had he grown the balls to pull stunts like this?

And double-crossing the Lone Wanderer for the sake of the Wasteland… not a mistake, but a very dangerous move. The kid was blind; the survivors did not have the teeth to take on the mutie threat. Not without armoured units of some sort. Jackrum had hoped the Brotherhood of Steel would suffice, but with them gone, and the outcasts gone, there was really nowhere else to turn. The Wanderer would have to deal with it on his own terms.

"Where are we headed?" he asked, receiving a rough elbow to his ribs for the trouble.

"Quiet, Waster." Someone ordered.

Summers answered a moment later. "I am taking you back to our headquarters. I'll let my superior decide what to do with you. And your offer."

"If you guys don't accept, are you going to take me back to the Wasteland?" Jackrum asked hopefully.

"Why waste the fuel?" Summers asked lightly. "We'll just kill you and be done with it."

"Lovely."

"Don't worry." She said, her voice coy. "I'll make it painless."

"You know its painless, huh? Personal experience?"

"No test subject has ever complained afterwards." The Lieutenant replied. He could hear her shuffling around the cabin as the Vertibird lifted into the air. The two pilots were exchanging orders and information. "So I've got to assume I did it right."

"Sounds legit." He observed dryly.

"Indeed."

* * *

><p>Most of the trip was spent in silence. Jackrum had no idea where they were heading, nor how long it had been since they had taken off. The ride was a thoroughly jittery and unpleasant experience. Every time they hit the slightest turbulence, Jackrum's stomach would drop, and he'd be forced to resist the urge to vomit. The enclave squad surrounding him stayed silent for the duration of the trip. The only sound was the pilots up at the front exchanging latitudes and longitudes and pitches and yaws and all sorts of other flight jargon which Jackrum didn't understand. Every so often they'd state some GPS coordinates, which he would try and inevitably fail to remember.<p>

They landed after what felt like several hours. Enclave personnel chattered at one another. The Vertibird hatch was opened and blessed fresh air flooded the confined space. Power armoured soldiers clanked and scrambled all around Jackrum. His blindfold was ripped off, and he blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the sudden light.

The woman named Summers was standing in front of him, her Hellfire helmet had been removed. She was not an ugly woman by any means, but her hair had been tied back in a severe bun, and her face was lined and creased with both age and stress. She was a soldier, first and foremost.

"Get up, Waster. Get moving." She ordered. He got to his feet and was promptly shoved out of the vertibird and onto the rough tarmac of a landing strip. They had landed inside an airforce base. To his right was the hulking ruin of an enormous machine, several stories high. It looked as though someone had sprayed it with high-powered missiles.

"Our Landcrawler." Summers told him, stepping out of the Vertibird. "Or what's left of it, anyway."

"Adams Airforce base." Jackrum said, examining the ruins. At the very end of the airfield, he could see the carcasses of the pre-war jetfighters which had been removed to make room for vertibirds. Enclave personnel buzzed around the planes, stripping parts off of them. He turned back to her. "So now I know where we are. Was the blindfold necessary?"

"Standard procedure."

"Useless procedure."

"You know, I could simply shoot you here and now and pretend you never made an offer in the first place." She told him.

"So do it." Jackrum challenged.

She fingered her plasma pistol for a moment, and then glared at him. her hand dropped to her side.

"Yeah…" Jackrum said triumphantly. "That's how badly you want him. Now, where's the man in charge?"

She pointed towards a set of warehouses on the opposite side of the airfield. Jackrum started off towards them, maneuvering through the rows of vertibirds, and dodging the enclave maintenance personnel. Summers caught up a moment later, staying a few steps behind him.

"So, I though the Brotherhood were protecting this place. Keeping you guys out."

"They got recalled when the muties attacked. We moved back in."

"Must burn you right up that a bunch of primitive wasters held it off for that long, huh?"

"Shut up. I can shoot to wound."

Summers lead him through several sets of warehouses until they came to a small side door. It had been heavily fortified with sandbags and the enclave portable fortifications. Several Hellfire soldiers were standing at the ready, their incinerators lit. the yellow eyes of their helmets were very unsettling, and Jackrum shifted uncomfortably as they gave him a thorough examination.

One of them looked to Summers. "Ma'am?"

"Prisoner." She said. "Important intel which Major Beverly should hear. Don't worry, he's been disarmed. I have it covered."

"Yes, Ma'am." They moved aside, allowing Jackrum access to the rather unremarkable door beyond.

Summers laid her hand on his shoulder and gave it a painful squeeze. "I want you on your best behavior, Wastelander. You're about to meet the head of the Enclave."

"I'll mind my P's and Q's." Jackrum said, wincing as she let him go. "Don't you worry.

The room beyond was rather small, full of filing cabinets and computer databanks. There was a radio propped on a side-tablein the corner. It was buzzing out a scratchy version of Stars and Stripes Forever. A desk sat in the center of the room, covered in paperwork and maps. The young man sitting at it glanced up and gave him a searching look. Summers filed in behind Jackrum and moved over to stand beside her commanding officer. The man was wearing the standard enclave officer's outfit, complete with black gloves and the strange little gray hat. He looked to Summers first. "Lieutenant?"

"Sir."

"Why did you bring a Wastelander here?"

"He wanted to negotiate, sir. He says he can get us the Lone Wanderer."

"Really?" the young man raised his eyebrows and stared at Jackrum, who stared right back. God, the kid looked to be barely out of his teens. His face was completely unmarred, and he had young, innocent baby blue eyes.

"What's your name?" Jackrum asked.

"I am Major Bartholomew Beverly."

Jackrum stared. He glanced up at Samantha Summers and shook his head. "Seriously? And Augustus Autumn of course. Do you guys just keep some book around the nursery titled Baby Names and Alliteration?"

"Mind your manners, Waster." Summers warned.

Jackrum ignored her. "How old are you, kid?"

"Twenty-two."

"Oh, Christ. Just cuttin' yer teeth, then? I get it." Jackrum eyed the young commander. "Hmm…"

"You can give us the Wanderer?" the Commander asked.

"Yeah. For a pretty hefty price."

"Any price is acceptable to me." Beverly told him.

Jackrum raised an eyebrow and fished out his cigarette packet. He bit a smoke and pulled out between his teeth, grabbing his matches with his other hand. "In that case, we might be able to do business.

"I don't approve of smoking." Beverly said.

"Yeah, well you guys don't approve of Wastelanders either, so I guess you got me coming and going." Jackrum said, lighting up and taking a long drag. "What have you got against the Wanderer?"

"Aside from what he's done to the Enclave as a whole?" Beverly asked, coughing delicately. "Both of my parents are on his suspected casualty list. One of them died during our attempt to liberate Project Purity, and the other was in that Landcrawler when the Wanderer ordered the Orbital Strike. You must have seen the result when you landed."

"I'm sorry…" Jackrum coughed and gave him a quizzical look. "When you _what_ the purifier?"

"Liberated. To Liberate. To free. To recapture from the enemy."

"May be a few too many syllables for him, sir." Summers said.

"I know what Liberate means. It's just, according to my sources, you guys stole it, then tried to take credit for it."

"Lies and slander, Waster. Spread by invalids and pot-stirring malcontents. Watch your tongue." Beverly glared at him.

"Can't. My nose is in the way."

Summers rolled her eyes.

"What do you want in exchange for the Wanderer?" Beverly asked.

"Well…" Jackrum looked around the small room. "You guys got a chair?"

"Stand." Summers ordered.

"That's real polite, lady."

"You're the one who wanted to smoke in here." Summers replied evenly. They stared at one another. Jackrum carefully lowered his cigarette and butted it out against his breastplate. Summers immediately stepped behind a set of filing cabinets and pulled a small wooden chair into view. She brought it around the side of the desk and handed it to the mercenary.

"Thank you." Jackrum took a seat. She didn't acknowledge him. She just moved back to her former position behind Beverly. "Anyway, what I want in return for the Wanderer is help. Your troops. Vertibirds. Explosives. All of those energy weapons. We gotta take on the muties together or they're going to wipe us all out.

"What makes you think we have any plans to engage them?" Beverly asked. "Perhaps we'll just salvage what we can afterwards and head back west…"

"So you're going to cut and run." Jackrum said thoughtfully. "How far can you guys run? Actually never mind. You guys couldn't even hold your own against one Vault kid with an assault rifle. How can I expect you to stand against the muties?"

Summers flinched, her pride stung. "The Wanderer is more than a lucky shot. You know that. He has…"

"What? What does he have, Ms. Summers? Super Duper Ninja Powers?" Jackrum grinned at her. "That what you guys are going to tell your bosses back west? Think that's going to fly?"

"We'll just have to make do." She responded coldly.

"We cannot take and hold the Wasteland at the rate the Wanderer slaughters our troops. We are going to run out of people." Beverly said, addressing Summers. He looked back at Jackrum. "That being said, we're going to lose just as many people going to war with the Mutants. I need something more than the head of one very troublesome terrorist criminal before I can justify committing my forces to defend primitives."

"I'll take him out back and shoot him, sir." Summers offered. "Then we can get back to packing up and going home."

Jackrum raised his hands. "Hold on, hold on! There's something else. Just… Just gimme a second, alright? I need to think." He rose to his feet and stepped out the door. The two hellfire troopers gave him a cursory examination, but when all he did was lean against the wall and light up a cigarette, they resumed their duties.

…Now what?

If he failed to convince them, he was going to die. Escape was hopeless. There was no way he could fight his way across the base. Hell, he didn't even know which direction to head towards anyway.

Now what? What could he possibly offer them? It hadn't even occurred to him that they could just pack up and leave. That that was a viable option for them… They needed incentive even to stay, never mind fight.

Start at the beginning. The Enclave wanted power. That meant Project Purity, but giving them the purifier meant putting the Talon Company and anyone allied with them on the Wanderer's shit list. Hell, Jackrum was going to have to do some fancy footwork just to talk his way out of _this_, never mind handing the hopes and dreams of James Howlett to the people who had already killed him for it.

Did it matter? Why did it matter what Jason Howlett thought? The Wasteland was at stake. The lives of innocent men, women and children, hell, the fate of humanity as a whole. At least, on this side of the country. It was all at risk. What did it matter if in the end, the Enclave owned the Capital Wasteland, so long as there was a Capital Wasteland to own. One run by human beings, and as bigoted and terrible as they were, the Enclave at least had that going for them.

It was always a problem which could be dealt with later. One issue at a time, and right now, the issue was the fifteen-hundred strong mutant horde overrunning the wasteland.

One problem at a time.

The door beside him opened, and Summers stepped out. "Waster? You're taking your good sweet time."

"Just enjoying my smoke." Jackrum replied. He took a long drag, burning the cigarette down to the butt. He dropped it on the ground and stamped it out. "I'm ready."

Once again, he took a seat in front of Major Beverly. Summers stayed near the door this time, and Jackrum did not have to look to know that she had unholstered her pistol.

"Well?" asked Beverly.

"Project Purity is yours. If you help us."

Beverly's eyes widened, ever so slightly.

"And I can't guarantee this, but whatever kinda government will be set up, you'll probably have a voice in it." Jackrum added for good measure. "You guys want to rule the Wasteland. Fine. Just so long as you save it."

"Many primitives will not be happy with that arrangement."

"They won't." Jackrum admitted. "Hell, I won't either. But right now the only organized military force left is under my command. The Brotherhood's gone, and Rivet City is under siege. What I say goes as far as the Wasteland is concerned. If I say trust the Enclave, we trust the enclave. It's not like anyone has much choice, me included."

"And the Wanderer?"

Jackrum shrugged. "I tell him where to be, you bring whatever you need to to get rid of him." _And lets just hope the kid is ready for it. If we need to take back the Wasteland from the Enclave, he'll be our ace-in-the-hole._

Summers and Beverly exchanged glances.

"Seventy-five Hellfire soldiers. Twelve Vertibirds."

"How about as many as it takes of everything you've got?"

"Not an option." Summers said.

"I didn't ask you. Beverly?"

The young Major stared across the desk, frowning at Jackrum. He was rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He said, "After the Enclave saves the Wasteland, Galaxy News gets shut down. For good."

"_What?_" Jackrum stared. "But-"

"But nothing. Three Dog is turned over to us. Any technicians or assistant teams he had working on behalf of Galaxy News are disbanded, and the radio equipment dismantled. Enclave Radio is to be the only radio station in the Capital Wasteland."

"I don't know where Three Dog is. The Wanderer was at Galaxy News when the Mutants struck. I don't know where he hid him." Jackrum told them, trying not to panic. The idea of the Capital Wasteland without Galaxy News… it was unacceptable. Impossible.

"Do you want your people to live, or not?" Beverly asked triumphantly.

"I'll…" Jackrum sighed, defeated. "I'll see what I can do. But I honestly don't know where he is at the moment. I've never met him. Fact is a year ago I was just a sergeant."

"And how the hell did you end up being in charge of the Talon Company?" Beverly demanded. "Last we heard, it was under Jabsco's command.

"Worked with the Wanderer to take out Jabsco." Jackrum said quietly.

"Ooh." A smile quirked at the corner of Summers' mouth. "Then this must _really_ burn, huh Waster?"

Jackrum kept his mouth resolutely shut. He just stared at the floor between his knees.

"I will allow you one hundred and fifty Enclave troopers, kept supplied by us." Beverly said. "That is the majority of my fighting forces. I'll also give you twenty-five armed vertibirds for use in offensive operations against the mutant horde. If any are lost, I might – _might_ consider restoring those numbers for you."

"Sir?" Summers asked, looking somewhat shocked.

"You'll be there too, Summers, overseeing his operations and insuring that Enclave resources are being put to proper use against the Supermutant threat." Beverly ordered. He shuffled a stack of papers and set it aside. "See to it, Lieutenant. Good luck, Commander."

Summers glowered at him, but followed orders and gently escorted him out of Major Beverly's office.

The trip back felt both shorter, and infinitely longer, as there was nothing for Jackrum to do by contemplate the consequences of the deal he had just struck.

The Wasteland without Galaxy News… would it even be the same Wasteland? No. But Jackrum had known that going in. How many people was he willing to sell out to save it? Helping them ambush the Wanderer was one thing; the kid could shake off a nuke. But Three-Dog? Even the Talon Company at their worst had loved Three-Dog. The DJ was the voice of the Wasteland. The voice of every working man. Every irradiated ghoul. Every dehydrated drifter… what would there be? Who would speak for the Wasters? Hwo would speak for the Talon Company? Even Jackrum himself… The Wasteland would be a police state, ruled by Enclave Propaganda. How much of history would be re-written? Would James' twenty-year struggle to give them all fresh water be remembered? Or would it simply be another Enclave accomplishment. Would Jackrum be known as anything more than a puppet and a stooge? What about the Wanderer? All the good the kid had done for them, and future generations would know him only as a terrorist.

Assuming any of it helped against the mutants, of course…

He looked up at Summers, who was watching him with a guarded expression.

"Do you think what I did was right?" he asked, wondering why he should care what the woman thought. In her eyes, he could see a small amount of grudging respect.

"Allying with us?" she responded carefully. They were flying in a private vertibird, it was leading a swarm of the machines over the wasteland towards Evergreen Mills, the human's safe haven.

Jackrum nodded in response.

"It's good for the enclave." She said slowly. "But… I've listened to Three Dog's radio sometimes. I wasn't supposed to. But…" she snickered sourly. "The music _was_ better. I've never thought you wasters had any integrity. You haven't proven me wrong today. You'll do anything to survive."

Jackrum nodded and looked back down at the floor of the cabin. The vertibird shook violently as they hit a small amount of turbulence, but the ride seemed to smooth out a dozen seconds later.

Summers was still watching him. "That being said," she added carefully. "Without Power Armour, I've never gone up against a supermutant. I can't imagine taking a risk like that, so perhaps integrity is for people who can afford it."

* * *

><p>They landed about four hours later. Dusk was just settling over the western fringes of the Capital Wasteland. Jackrum watched from the open hatch as they circled the enormous crater. He could see the human beings below, running to and fro across the open ground. They'd been given strict orders not to shoot first, but that didn't mean they couldn't prepare for an incoming Enclave assault, something which Jackrum was infinitely glad was not about to happen.<p>

A greeting party emerged from the large building on the western edge of the crater. Turner was among them, walking forwards as Jackrum's Vertibird descended into the mill's courtyard. Jackrum stepped out of his vertibird and landed carefully on the dusty ground, squinting against the wind of the turbines. Summers followed him a few moments later, and the Vertibird took off, heading southwest back towards Adams airforce base.

All around the crater, Vertibirds were landing and dispensing Enclave troops. Some of the flying machines stayed parked where they landed, others took off back towards the Enclave headquarters.

"How did it go, sir?" Turner asked carefully, taking note of his CO's pale, worried visage. Jackrum lit a cigarette with one shaky hand. He watched the Enclave troops flood his Talon Company defenses, taking up positions alongside the Wastelanders. "They're with us now, Sergeant Turner. But one day I may have to ask you to buy back my soul. This was a terrible idea." He took a long puff and let it out through his nostrils, watching Summers as she moved from position to position, handing out instructions to her troops. "A terrible idea."


	27. Chapter 27

Mutatis Mutandis 27

Glade pushed his way carefully through the crowded apartment hallway. He could hear the sounds of a scuffle breaking out on the far side, and he sped up. Between the hostile and obnoxious attitudes of the vault dwellers, and the bitter violence of the Megaton residents, Vault 101 already felt like a powder keg. With Simm's help, the Brotherhood had been doing what they could to keep the piece, but to call any resolution an uphill battle was to be unrealistically optimistic.

Rothchild had made it very clear to the wastelanders that they were guests, and that the vault residents were to be treated with dignity and respect. The trouble was that neither party seemed interested in respect. The vaulties were angry because their home had been invaded, and the wasters were restless and frustrated to the point of violence. Surprisingly, they did not seem to blame the Wanderer, or at least if they held him factually responsible, they did not hold it against him. He had built up incredible amounts of goodwill over the years, and it had paid off.

Glade understood the Wanderer's decision to lock them in. It was to protect them all. There was no way to deny that the Wastelanders needed all the help they could get. All Glade had to do was remember the fall of the Citadel, and his own frustrations would be put to rest as he remembered that things could have been a lot worse. The trouble was that regular Wastelanders didn't know how to cope with the situation quite as well.

The crowd finally parted to reveal two figures standing in front of a locked apartment door. They were caught in the midst of a vicious fight. One of them Glade recognized as Wally Mack, one of the more troublesome residents. The other, to Glade's shame and astonishment, was Paladin Kodiak, who had the vault resident in a chokehold. To his credit, Mack was putting up a pretty good fight. His vault boots were leaving black streaks on the concrete floor as he scraped and scrabbled to get free, however the lack of oxygen was beginning to take its toll as his sporadic punches weakened. A baseball bat was lying on the floor nearby. The crowd was about three dozen strong, split evenly between the Megaton residents and the vault dwellers. Both sides were cheering on their respective champions.

"Greg!" Glade barked angrily stepping out into the semi-circle, "Stand down!"

The Paladin straightened obediently, letting the younger man drop to the cold concrete floor. Mack lay there, curled in the fetal position, gasping for breath. The Megaton residents let out a series of disappointed moans.

"What the hell is going on?" Glade demanded.

"He attacked me, sir." Kodiak reported. "While trying to gain access to this Apartment."

Glade studied the locked door. "Whose apartment is it?"

"Mine!" Mack coughed. There was a series of boos from the vault dwellers. The Megaton residents responded with jeers and laughter.

"What happened?" Glade asked, holding up a hand to silence the watching crowd.

"That bitch broke in and kicked me out." The man named Wally reported, rising to his feet. "She threatened me with a gun!"

Murmurs of anguish and disbelief passed through the crowd of Vault Dwellers.

"It's a bout damned time someone taught you who da fuckin' boss is!" A waster announced. The man was wearing leather armour, and he had the toughened physique of a veteran fighter. The crowd of wasters behind him laughed and jeered, egging him on.

A middle-aged vault dweller stepped forward angrily. "That's my son. You want to start something, you fucking savage?"

"I'm going to need both of you calm down right now." Glade said, stepping between them before they could grow any closer. He confronted the Wastelander first. "Fall back in line. This isn't your business."

"They keep fuckin' walkin' around like dehya're better dan us!" the waster said. Glade recognized the telltale accent of a Raider. This resident clearly had a colorful past.

"Do you live there?" Glade asked, pointing at the apartment door.

"Well, no. But-"

"Then this has nothing to do with you. Get back in line." Glade ordered, settling his hand on his pistol grip. It was a subtle move, but the waster got the message and stepped back into the crowd, glaring at the Star-Paladin. Only members of the Brotherhood were allowed to carry weapons in the confines of Vault 101. It had been one of the first rules instituted by Rothchild, and it was heavily reinforced. Glade watched him for a moment longer, then turned back to the vault dweller. "You are?"

The man stuck out his chin defiantly. "Allen Mack."

"Well, Allen, I understand that this man is your son, but he's also a grown up, and this is between him and Paladin Kodiak. I'm going to have to ask you to step away as well."

"And what's going to happen to him?" Allen pointed at Kodiak. "He punched my son!"

"He tried to hit me with that bat!" Kodiak replied, pointing at the heavy wooden club.

"Quiet, Greg." Glade ordered. "Paladin Kodiak is under my command. I'll take responsibility for his actions, and I'll see to his disciplinary punishment. In the meantime, it would do us all al lot of good to go about your business." He stepped back and addressed the crowd at large. "All of you, carry on."

The crowd dispersed, looks of loathing being cast back and forth between the Wasters and the Vaulties. Glade waited until they had all but gone before he turned back to the two warriors.

"Now…" he said, his patience wearing thin. "What happened. Mister Mack, you first."

"That bastard wouldn't let me into my apartment!" Mack declared, pointing an accusatory finger at Kodiak.

"So you decided to get a baseball bat and try to hit him with it?" Glade asked carefully. "Do you think that was a reasonable response?"

"Well…" Mack hesitated.

"Tell me, if Kodiak had been living here in the vault with you his whole life, if he were one of you, would you have attacked him with the bat?"

Mack glared at him.

"I'll answer for you because we both know the answer." Glade said. "The answer is No. You would have called Vault security. Because those are the rules down here. Let's imagine that the roles were reversed for a moment, and you were preventing Paladin Kodiak from getting into his home. He simply would have shot you. And no one would have thought the worse of him for it. "

The man's sneer disappeared.

Glade continued. "Kodiak would have dropped your body in a dumpster and gone on with his day. Because that is how things work out there. Those are _our _rules. We're all having troubles trying to adjust and we're all frustrated. I get that. But it doesn't justify what happened here."

"I got threatened with a gun!" Mack exclaimed furiously.

Glade frowned. "Kodiak?"

"Not me, sir."

"It was that crazy lady." The vault dweller exclaimed, "She's in there right now."

Glade raised an eyebrow at his subordinate.

"Three guesses who, sir." Kodiak muttered.

The Star-paladin sighed. "Alright. Let me through. I'll get her out."

"I'd appreciate that." Mack told him sarcastically. "Door's locked, but I have the key." He moved forward and opened it to let Glade in.

"We'll wait out here, sir." Kodiak said.

Glade closed the door behind him and turned to survey the room. The apartment was a small space. There was a kitchen alcove in the corner, and a couch with a coffee table in front of it. A side-door lead to the bedroom area, which is where he found Sarah Lyons.

She was in her recon armour, sitting on one of the beds, staring down at a faded photograph. He noted the Wanderer's Bandana, which she had taken to tying loosely around her throat. Her 10mm pistol was lying on the bed beside her.

"Hi Glade." She said without looking up. Her voice was that terrible monotone which she used almost all the time now.

"Sarah…" he said, his tone one of gentle scolding. "You're becoming a real wildcard, you know that?"

"Hmm…"

"Sarah, you can't just go around barging into random people's homes. It's hard enough trying to keep the peace down here as it is."

"It isn't his home." She said distantly, squinting at the photograph. "He's just squatting here."

"Yeah? Well we were just squatting in the Citadel. But we called that home, didn't we?"

"Have you checked the vault records?" Sarah asked. "This apartment isn't registered to him."

"Well whose is it, then?" glade inquired, a shade impatient.

She handed the photograph to him. "The Wanderer's."

_That _threw Glade off-balance. He took the photo and stared down at it. He recognized James, standing behind a smiling young boy…

"…Holy shit." Glade took a close look at the happy youth to make sure, but it was the Wanderer. The cheeks were the same. His hair was still that sandy blonde color… the grown-up version was far more tanned, his face had been marked by grit and travel. But it was the same person, clear as day. He even had a little BB gun slung across his back.

Glade felt a surge of apprehension. Standing there suddenly felt sacrilegious. He took a second glance around the place, half expecting to find either the Wanderer, or the ghost of James Howlett to be standing in the kitchenette, staring at him forebodingly.

"I'm willing to bet that old man Mack got tired of his son living at home and booted him into the nearest empty place after James left." Sarah said. "Neither of them have any right to this place."

"Why are you defending his honor or his property? I thought you hated him for locking us in here…"

"I don't hate Jason. I'm trying to…" she waved her hand vaguely. "Forgive him. For all of this. I guess Bloomseer Poplar was right."

"Who?"

"Never mind." She said, irritated.

"Sarah… bottom line is that no matter who technically owned it before, someone is living in it right now. And he's the son of one of the troublemakers. Of all the things to argue with the Vaulties over, this is among the stupidest. And I don't know him as well as you do, but I think that the Wanderer would tell you the same thing. It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Look, Jason locked us in here so one day we'd be available to fight the muties, right? Now this place is a powder keg. When it goes, there's going to be a lot of fighting and a lot of violence, and the war out there, however it might be going, is going to lose a lot of potential troops. There's no point in fanning the flames. When Jason opens the vault, let him deal with it."

Sarah reached out and took back the photograph.

"I miss my father." She said, examining it.

Glade sighed and strolled over to the bed, taking a seat beside her. He was reminded of all the times he had done this during Sarah's youth. He carefully picked up her pistol and held it in his hands.

"I do too." He admitted. "And Dusk. And Vargas. Colvin… Gallows… all the rest."

"It's just you a Glade, huh?"

"And you."

She chuckled. "I think we both know that time has long since passed. I don't know what I am anymore… Where I fit into things."

Glade put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her into a comforting hug. "You'll always have a home with us, Sarah. No matter what happens. No one's kicked you out of anywhere."

They exited the suite a few minutes later. Sarah walked right past Wally Mack without giving him so much as a glance. Glade stopped in front of him. "Your apartment is yours again. She shouldn't give you any more trouble."

"Much appreciated." He grunted sourly, stepping inside and shutting the door in Glade's face.

Kodiak let out a long breath. "Wow… that nearly blew up in our faces…"

"Yeah. Incidentally, Greg, in the interests of keeping all of this from going any further, you're on cleaning duty. Go get a toothbrush and start on the men's toilets."

The younger soldier groaned. "Oh, come on!"

* * *

><p>When Jason came to, he was bound to a chair. He could hear the sound of running water nearby, and a steady pounding noise. His chest was aching fit to burst, and he couldn't shake the memory of the rocky spike forcing its way through him. Breathing was difficult, and he began to cough wildly, which only doubled the pain.<p>

"You are a fascinating creature, Wanderer." Said a calm deep voice.

Jason opened his eyes and stared into his own rippling reflection. His chair had been placed in a pool of the strange glowing water. the puddle was several inches deep. He was seated in a large, darkened room somewhere in a vault. Probably 87. He couldn't make out any ceiling. The walls and floor were green, slick with slime and moisture. An unpleasant musky scent hung in the air. Seated on a much larger chair, directly in front of him, was a dark-skinned supermutant with intelligent eyes, and the careful muscle control which Fawkes and Leo had both managed to master only through years and years of daily practice. The mutant was heavily armoured, and had an enormous sword slung across his back. He carried himself with the composure of a king. Jason's Chinese assault rifle was slung over the mutant's right shoulder, opposite the hilt of the massive blade.

"I am Brutus." The Supermutant told him. "It is nice to finally meet you in person, Wanderer."

Jason let out a roar and tried to launch himself towards the mutant, yet he only succeeded in making his chair rock back and forth, sending ripples across the small pool.

"Calm, Wanderer, calm." The mutant scolded lightly. "You do not want to go tipping over, now. That water is tainted with the FEV II virus."

"What do you want with me?" Jason asked hoarsely, struggling with his bonds. They were far too tight. The Wanderer was strong, and superhuman in many ways, but he did not possess super strength. Even with the Ant Might upgrades Doctor Lesko had given him, he couldn't break the tight leather bonds.

"I want to punish you, Jason. For bringing so much death upon my kind." Brutus told him quietly. "You've killed Alpha. Our greatest hope. Yet I want you to know that whatever happens, you will lose. I want you to have time to consider that fact. I want you to acknowledge it. Not to me, but to yourself. You are doomed, as is your wasteland."

"I am going to end you."

Behind Jason, he heard more pounding, and the sound of pouring water.

"Perhaps." the mutant smiled. It was the strangest thing Jason had ever seen. "But even if you do, you will still lose." With a sudden burst of motion, the mutant rose and with one hand, he flipped Jason around to reveal the rest of the chamber. It was filled with yellow barrels marked with Hazmat warning symbols. Two supermutant Masters were hard at work, punching holes in the tops of each barrel. Beside them was an enormous water pipe. A hole had been torn in the top, and they were pouring the bright green contents of the barrels into the water line.

Brutus spoke calmly as they watched the mutants work. "To be honest, I am tired of watching my brothers get killed fighting this war. Luckily, another solution has presented itself. You see, that little creek, that river beside us… it leads directly into the main water basins underneath the Capital Wasteland. I am going to pour every drop of the FEV II virus into that waterline, Wanderer. And when I do, the Wasteland's entire water table will be tainted. It does not take much to turn a human. Anyone who drinks from any pool or fountain anywhere in this part of the world will become an FEV II mutant." Brutus bent down until his mouth was right next to Jason's ear. "Think about it, Wanderer. Every Wastelander. Every adventurer. Every warrior, scholar, tinker, tailor, butcher, baker, candlestick maker. Every man, woman, and child… Even your precious Talon Company and the innocent residents of Vault 101. They will all get thirsty eventually. Everyone who wanders this Capital Wasteland will have no choice but to join our army. We will be truly unstoppable. And you?"

He walked slowly around until he was at the edge of the pool, framed by the light of the barrels. He stared down at Jason. "You will bear witness to our birth, Wanderer. It begins here. in this very room…"

Brutus reached over his shoulder and pulled out the Xuanlong assault rifle. "This is a very good weapon. It has served you well against us. I don't know how many mutant lives it has ended."

"I lost count around six hundred!" Jason snarled.

"Six hundred…" Brutus' eyes shut for a moment. The mutant licked its lips and stared down at the rifle, a look of mourning on its face. "And now it will serve us. You see, before he died, Burke told me many interesting things about you. You can heal from anything. Yet only after being exposed to either four hundred rads, or sunlight." The mutant smirked. "There is no sunlight down here, Wanderer." The mutant produced several empty packets of Rad-away, waving them before Jason's eyes. "And right now, you are completely radiation free. " He raised the rifle and fired a single shot.

Jason huffed as the force of the bullet tore through him, knocking the air from his lungs. The bullet tore through his abdomen, leaving a bloody, ragged hole behind. He gasped, trying to regain his lost breath, and fighting back the sudden waves of overwhelming pain. Blood poured down his side, soaking his ruined clothing and mingling with the glowing waters of the shallow pool. He could hear the sound of the red droplets hitting the water. On the far side of the chamber, both of the Masters stopped to watch.

"Are you paying attention, Jason?" Brutus snarled violently, striding forward through the pool. The mutant laid his hands on Jason's shoulders and leaned down until they were face to face. "There is no sunlight. But this pool you're sitting inches above is irradiated. Getting up to Six hundred Rads takes time. To heal from a wound like that takes longer. Do you have time, Wanderer? Or will you bleed out before you get there?" he grabbed Jason roughly by the hair and held his gaze steady, more than matching the Wanderer's hate-filled glare. "If you want to live, you're going to have to drink from that pool, Wanderer. But if you drink from that pool, you'll become one of us." He stood back and spread his arms welcomingly. "I give you a choice. Your fate is in your own hands, now. That is freedom, Wanderer. That is freedom." He met Jason's cold, defiant glare with a look of amusement. "I'll leave you to ponder, Wanderer. I'm off to D.C. to rally my forces. Then we'll crush Jackrum's resistance. I'll be back to check on you after that is dealt with."

* * *

><p><strong>so this was supposed to be a triple update, but the last chappy ain't quite done yet, and i ahve too many things going on IRL to finish it this weekend. Hope you guys enjoyed what I have down here anyway...<strong>


	28. Chapter 28

Mutatis Mutandis 28

Word of warning, this chapter is where this story earns its M-rating. Torture, implied rape, child abuse, and other wonderfully cheerful things to follow. If you're faint of heart, well… then… What are you doing

_**here**_**? **_**This**_** far? Into **_**this**_** series? Go find another series to follow! Fallout Equestria, for example. I pull very few punches. You should know this by now. **

* * *

><p>Jason grunted, straining against the leather cords which held him in place. His side was awash with pain of all sorts, sometimes minor and sometimes paralyzing. He could feel the alarming amounts of blood soaking his clothing. He did not know how much time had passed since Brutus had left, but the pool of water at his feet had long since turned a cloudy red, glinting in the meager light provided by the glowing barrels. He didn't want to touch it. He did not want to become a mutant. The two masters were hard at work, pouring more and more of the FEV II virus into the water pipe. He had to stop them. Stop them, free himself, find a way to heal from this damned bullet wound, then find Brutus and gut the bastard for all he had done, including Jason's current predicament.<p>

That was the plan. So… first things first.

"Hey!" he shouted. "Uglies!"

One of the Masters took notice and marched over, stopping at the edge of the pool, only a few meters away. The other followed shortly. "What you want?"

He had to get away from the water, and somewhere near a less dangerous radiation source. How was that for irony? There were plenty in Vault 87, but none of them would help if he couldn't get free. Hopefully his new friends would help. Jason said, "Don't you want to come over here and… beat me up or something?"

"Stoopid Human! We not dat dumb! Brutus say no touch you. We no touch you."

"Yeah." The second mutant added, "You Wanderer. You very dangerous. We touch you, you break free. Kill us. Kill whole vault. Stop Brutus' plan. We not goin' near you!"

Jason groaned. They had picked one hell of a terrible moment to finally learn that lesson. "Well what if I promised not to?" he asked, partially out of desperation, and partially to sate his own curiosity. They couldn't be _that _stupid…

"We not trust you human! But is ok." The mutant reassured him, "Will eat your heart when you dead!" His companion laughed and they both turned towards the barrels.

"You stupid muties really need to come over here and untie me or there'll be hell to pay!" Jason threatened, just trying to keep them interested. As they turned back towards him, his mind worked quickly, trying to find a way to goad them into getting him away from the tainted water. He needed to heal. He could feel himself growing weaker by the minute. God, since when did bullet wounds hurt so much? Actually, it didn't hurt so much. In fact it was going numb; probably a bad sign.

…But he might be able to use the injury to his advantage…

"You need to untie me!" Jason said, keeping their attention. "Or else when I do break free, I'll…" he let his voice trail off and hung his head, going limp in the chair.

"You what, human?" one of the mutants asked. There was silence. Jason listened as the other mutant moved to the edge of the pool to watch him.

"Wanderer?"

"He dead?"

"Dunno? How we tell?"

"Hey, human! Wake up!"

There was another thoughtful pause. Then, "Hey! Little dumb Wanderer, wakey wakey! I'm gonna rip little humans to shreds!" Suddenly distracted, the mutant began laughing uproariously at the idea. His friend joined in a moment later. "Yeah! We eat all dem little humans! Ha ha ha ha ha!"

They paused to see if their taunting had any effect.

"…He dead?" one asked.

Jason kept still and silent, his head bowed.

"Maybe. He Wanderer. We say we kill humans… he alive, he get mad. He shout at us. Break free and kill us. He dead… he act like dis."

"Wow. Makes sense. You so smart… why you on barrel duty?"

"Don't know. Casey Jones say so."

"Well what we do with him?"

"Hrrmm" one of them rumbled thoughtfully. Jason heard a gentle splash, and the tainted water lapped against the soles of his combat boots. That horrid mutant stench filled his nostrils, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose, sensing the proximity of the abomination.

"Wanderer! Wakey wakey!" the mutant said. God… it sounded inches away. Jason could actually feel its foul breath on his face.

Then an enormous thumb pressed into his bullet wound. Agony blossomed outwards, surging through him and he went rigid, screaming in pain.

"Ha!" the mutant said, pressing even harder until its thumb had worked its way past the abdominal muscle wall. It's dirty, cracked and broken fingernails scratched and crushed his intestines. The mutant was laughing, though Jason could barely hear him. The world seemed to be swimming, fading in and out between this conscious hell and blessed darkness. All at once, the invasive digit slid out with a wet pop. The mutant was staring down at him triumphantly, though he hardly noticed through the pain.

"Stupid Wanderer. We know you lie!"

The mutant's enormous green fist slammed into Jason's nose, crushing the back of his neck as his head snapped backwards. The blow sending him toppling over into the tainted waters, but by that point he had long since succumbed to the pain.

* * *

><p>Water lapped at his jawline, pooling in his open mouth. His hair was damp, and he could feel a throbbing in his side. His neck was aching, and his skin itched. Hot and cold flashes raced across his body, and he could immediately feel that something was off. His muscles and joints were tighter than they should have been, and his senses felt both dulled and somehow sharpened. Jason slowly opened his eyes to reveal the wall of the chamber, and an open door. Panic swept through him as he pieced together the moments before his blackout. He was lying in the tainted water… What had it done to him? Had he drank any of it? Would that make a difference, or was just skin contact necessary?<p>

He began to struggle wildly, kicking with both feet and straining against the bonds which fixed his wrists to the arms of the chair. At first, his struggles were only rewarded with the sound of the straps straining to hold him in place. He only began to fight harder, the panic adding a boost of much-needed adrenaline.

One the far side of the room, he could hear the jeers and laughter of the two supermutant masters. Their amusement at his helplessness only enraged him further, and he could hear them stomping over to watch him struggle. Wood began to creak and splinter, and he could feel the entire frame of the chair loosening slowly.

"Human! You awake again! Need more pain?" one of the mutants laughed, calling to him from the edge of the pool.

The chair exploded, and Jason floundered in the pond, suddenly finding his limbs freed. Lengths of wood hung from his wrists and ankles, held in place by the lengths of binding material. He kneeled in the pool, on his hands and knees trying to stop his head from spinning. Sounds of alarm and consternation echoed through the chamber. Enormous feet slapped damp concrete, and then he could hear splashing. A mutant foot impacted his side, winding him and sending waves of pain through him. He landed a short distance away, gripping one of the chair's arms. There were nails in the end of it. _A weapon! _And even better, he was on a dry surface, out of the tainted water.

His hand closed around the weapon and he pushed himself up as the mutant rushed him for a second attack. He dodged the clumsy, flailing fists and swung his makeshift weapon into the side of the mutant's head. It yelped and leapt backwards, clutching its temple, a small amount of blood dribbled between its fingers. Jason moved quickly, taking careful notice of the other mutant, who had picked up the remains of the chair and was rushing forward, holding the wreckage over its head like a club. It heavy footfalls echoed around the room.

Changing his grip on his tiny weapon, Jason took two swift steps forward and jammed the nail into the eyes of the closer mutant, causing it to howl in surprise and pain. Its partner was coming for him at high speed, swinging the chair in a brutal arc. Jason leapt to the side, dodging the mutant, and it brought the chair down on its partner's back, dropping the smaller mutant to the ground. Jason took advantage of the mutant's surprised pause, and used the hooked, rusted nailboard to tear out the mutant's throat. As the creature staggered backwards, gurgling, he leapt onto its partner's back. He wrapped the loose leather strap around the mutant's neck and began to tighten it, choking his prey. Its partner grasped at him feebly, but both mutants were already slipping on the blood-drenched floor, and it died before it could tear him off of its ally.

The remaining mutant stumbled around the chamber, rasping as it fought for breath. Jason tightened the binds further, and clung to it for dear life. The pain from his bullet wound had faded with the adrenaline, but it came back in full force as he was swung to and fro. Then the mutant's elbow connected with the wound itself. The pain was too much, and Jason let go, flying off to the side and landing flat on his stomach.

The mutant roared in anguish, tearing the binding from its throat. It picked Jason up by his shredded duster and flung him towards the glowing green barrels of the FEV II virus. With a loud crash, Jason hit two of them, sending them rocking dangerously from side to side. A few droplets of pure FEV II formula landed on the ground next to his face and he rolled backwards. A moment later the damaged barrel came crashing down, the green liquid flooding towards him as he scrambled away. The mutant bellowed hysterically, once again charging towards him. The Wanderer looked around quickly, searching for anything he could use as a weapon. Yet aside from the barrels, the chamber was empty, and mutant was coming far too quickly for him to move out of the way, and his side hurt too much regardless.

The mutant charged into him, picking him up by the throat and slamming him into the nearest wall. The broken waterline was nearby, and the mutant began to shuffle towards it, gripping the struggling Wanderer tightly. Jason kicked out as hard as he could, his heel opening long gashes across the mutant's face and shoulders. Eventually it struck back with its free hand, thrusting a few fingers into his gunshot wound to stifle his efforts and overwhelm him with waves of crippling agony.

Then they were at the waterpipe. The mutant slammed him down against it, the rough metal edges cutting into his chest and shoulders as his head was thrust beneath the rushing water. Jason gripped the edges of the pipe as best he could and pushed backwards, but that was of no use. The mutant had superior strength, and the leverage to use it effectively. Every time the Wanderer seemed to be getting too uppity, that fist would pound into the gunshot wound, disabling him again and again and again.

Trapped beneath the rushing water, Jason struggled for breath. He could feel his heart pounding, and panic overwhelmed him as his lungs cried for oxygen. Pressure built up in his throat, and Jason let out a stream of bubbles, trying to keep himself distracted. He kicked out and felt his foot connect with the Mutant's thigh. In response, its fist slammed into his side again, and he cried out in silent pain, reflexively drawing a breath. Water flowed freely into his lungs. Time seemed to slow, every agonized second drawing itself out to an infinity.

All at once, it stopped. The pressure holding him down was released. Jason slid to the floor coughing madly. He could hear the mutant crying out in pain, just a few feet away. The heel of his boot slipped in something wet, and he shuffled backwards a meter or two, still trying to cough up any water left in his lungs. Behind him, the mutant was thrashing and screaming in agony. He lay there for a moment, listening to its dying sounds. There were several ugly cracks, and a strange organic noise. Silence dropped, save for the sound of the rushing water.

Finally gaining some measure of control over his lungs, Jason rolled onto his side and managed to prop himself up, wincing as he did so. The mutant was gone, and in its place was a jittering pile of flesh, almost two meters in height, and twice as wide. It sat there, shuddering and twitching. Cracked bones were visible, shards and shattered ends sticking out of the blood-spattered morass. Scraps of green skin could be seen, torn and ragged. Jason took a moment to understand what had happened, and the results were shocking. A small trickle of the raw FEV II formula from the spilled barrel had flowed through the shallow cracks in the vault's concrete floor. The stream had come into contact with the mutant's uncovered foot as it was drowning the Wanderer. Brutus had said that it only took a very small amount to turn someone into a supermutant. The results of an overdose on someone already transformed were spectacularly ugly. Contact with the raw, undiluted formula had caused every cell in the mutant's body to multiply into an uncontrollable, utterly randomized neoplastic mess. On the pile of flesh, a rapidly expanding pustule burst, sending another small trickle of blood to flow through the valleys of the bubbling morass.

The wanderer's eyes traveled downwards to the sole of his own boot, which was dripping with the stuff, though none had seeped through. Taking care to move as slowly as possible without touching the formula, he removed the footwear and tossed it away.

The Wanderer checked himself carefully for any more droplets of the FEV II virus, and upon finding none, he got to his feet and dusted himself off. The entire lower half of his body was soaked in blood, mostly his own. His duster was in shreds, and now one of his boots was missing. His skin itched, and his joints ached, not just because of the fighting; hit body felt rough and strange, and he wondered how long he had been exposed to the tainted water. He was rad resistant. Perhaps he had some resistance to the FEV II strain as well. It wasn't something he wished to put to the test, but he was himself for now. On top of everything else, the gunshot wound was aching as madly as ever. He wasn't sure what damage the mutant thumb had done to his innards, but his entire side was on fire. For a moment he thought of perhaps using the irradiated water in the open pipe to give himself a rad boost, but the FEV II formula had soaked the floor around it, making it inaccessible to him. He sighed; this was turning out to be a long, long day.

* * *

><p>The vault tunnels were pitch black, forcing him to turn on his Pip-boy light. He stumbled through the cramped passages, moving gingerly and using the walls for support as he worked his way through the labyrinth. The floor was covered in debris and broken glass, which did not help; he had rarely gone any distance without wearing his combat boots, and the sock on his uncovered foot was shredded within a few minutes. As he moved, he left a bloody footprint trail behind. It was still better than risking exposure to the raw formula.<p>

God… how could he solve that problem? He needed to incinerate the stockpile and he needed to do it soon, before Brutus could use it to do any more damage to the Capital Wasteland. How could one safely dispose of something that potent? Where the hell had it come from in the first place? Whenever Narg next showed his ugly old mug, the two of them were going to have a long conversation!

The pain in his side reminded Jason of his more immediate problems, and he collapsed for a moment, dropping to his knees and waiting for it to subside. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself and slow his heart rate down. He was feeling weaker than before; probably the blood loss. The effort it took to get back on his feet was worrisome, and no sooner had he risen than he heard the familiar rough movement of a mutant patrol, somewhere in the darkness ahead of him. He moved backward; he had passed the doorway to a vault washroom a little ways back. There hadn't been anything of use in there, just old bones and foul smells. The solitary medkit had been emptied a long time ago. Yet he rushed backwards as fast as he could, listening carefully for signs of pursuit. As he moved, the foot he was dragging behind him hit a tin can, making it skitter a few feet ahead.

"What was that?" a mutant voice echoed though the hall. Jason switched off his Pipboy light, and moved by feel and his hazy memory. It was better to be stuck blind than present any patrols with an obvious target. The Wanderer's questing hands soon found the washroom doorway, and he moved inside, feeling his way over a prone skeleton and into the nearest stall. He shut the door behind him and waited. After about a minute of silence, the heavy thud of mutant feet entered the washroom, along with the flickering light of a torch. Jason watched through the crack between the stall door and its frame, the slim bar of light playing across his face. outside the stall door, the mutant paced across the washroom and back, less than two meters away. He could see the top of its head over the door of the stall as it paused, listening for him. Its toes crunched on the dry bones of the skeleton, and it kicked a few ribs under the stall door. A warm feeling in his pant leg made him look down. Blood was pooling at Jason's feet, and he grimaced as a trickle ran slowly across the floor and beyond the stall's confines. He lifted his leg and took a silent step backwards, cutting off the flow for a moment. Outside the stall, the mutant shifted its stance, coming within inches of stepping in the fresh pool of blood. Jason tensed, preparing himself for another fight.

"Ah, well. I was hoping for a fight…" the mutant said somewhat mournfully. It stomped out, the light fading with it. Jason let out a long breath and gripped the bullet wound in his side. Even a day ago, the idea of him being _forced_ to hide from a mutant was laughable. But between his injuries and the mysterious aches and pains he was feeling, he was in no shape to fight. That had been used up just trying to take down the first two mutants. If he wanted to take down the mutants, he needed a weapon. Fast. But the only way to get them was to take down the mutant sentries. Stuck between and rock and a hard place, his only real option was to hide. Thankfully, he was still more than capable of being stealthy. He paused for a moment to check the toilets and sinks for irradiated water, but they were all dry as a bone. None of the taps worked. Brutus had probably routed the entire vault's water supply into that single pipe, trying to give the FEV II virus as much exposure as possible.

The Wanderer left the stall and moved forward, following the faint light of the mutant's torch. No matter where it was going, it would lead him away from here. he still had no idea how he was going to rid the wasteland of Brutus' FEV II supply. All he knew was that if he didn't, it would mean the end of everything he held dear.

The mutant lead him down twisting vault hallways which he did not recognize. His Pip-boy was slowly adding the new areas to his existing Vault 87 map, and he could see that they were growing closer to areas he had already mapped out. he was under the impression he had seen the whole vault, but there were plenty of locked doors, and plenty of dark corners he knew he hadn't explored yet. As they traveled through the labyrinth, he slowly became aware of other noises. Sobbing and agonized screaming. they passed through a foyer area where several hallways connected together. A large room was on one side, light shining through its windows. The mutant opened the nearest entrance and strode through, laughing as it did so. "You puny humans! All so weak! Ha ha ha! You all serve Master now! Will bring food. Need you alive! Need you healthy for Alpha! Make more muties! Unity!" it turned and strode off into the darkness.

Holding his side, and keeping one hand on the walls for support , Jason crept closer and peeked through the windows into the large room. It was full of prisoners, young and old. All chained to the outer walls and several heavy concrete blocks in the center of the room. He recognized a few residents from various towns across the wasteland. Raiders were there as well. To Jason's surprise, a few enclave officers. It was a fairly accurate cross-section of the wasteland's human population, with people from every settlement, and every background. They all had one thing in common: they were all female. Their clothes were dirty, ragged and torn. Gaunt faces told him that some had been there for a very long time. Their fingernails and toenails were cracked, grimy, and untrimmed, their hair frazzled and knotted. The looked half dead. He recognized among them Sierra Petrovita, and a woman from Arefu. Vance's wife Holly was there as well, her head lolling against a length of twisted rebar.

He stepped inside, picking his way over wire-thin, skeletal legs. Flied buzzed around him and he gagged on the foul stench of human refuse. Hope sparked in the eyes of a few of the more alert prisoners, but most of them regarded him with expressions of indifference, or solemn resignation. Most were too weak for anything more. To his utter horror and disgust, Jason spotted bumble in the corner. The young girl's pyjamas were missing a sleeve, though it didn't matter; she had long since died, her skin green and bloated, eyes faded and glazed over.

"Hey!" a voice rasped. "Hey, Wanderer!"

An accompanying foot poked him weakly in the ankle. Jason turned at looked down. Sydney was lying against the wall by the door, he arms shackled above her head. Of all the wastelanders in the room, she seemed to at least be to communicate. He knelt down beside her, wincing as theb wound made its presence known again.

"Well, well, well…" the woman coughed, "If it ain't The Great American hero…"

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Stupid question."

"Why are they keeping all of you here?" Jason already suspected the horrific answer, but he needed to know for sure.

"I hope I never find out." Sydney said weakly.

"If I free you, could you walk?"

Sydney shook her head slowly. Eyes shut, she leaned back and rested her head against the wall. "This is the most I've moved in… how long has it been? I can't remember…"

"You were in underworld, selling ammo. What happened?"

"Muties came. I didn't make it out. Others did though. Ghouls are hiding in the ruins." Sydney reported. Her breaths shallow and dry. "Do you have water?"

"No." Jason reported grimly. "Where can I find a weapon?"

Sydney managed to keep her eyes open long enough to register the gunshot wound in his side. "Looks like you need a stimpack first."

"You're getting it before me." He said.

"Yeah? And then what? I walk and everyone else here stays to die?" she looked blearily around the room, her eyes lingering on Bumble's corpse. "No. We all go, or we all stay. No amount of booze is going to dull that guilt."

The Lone Wanderer looked around the room, examining the captives. She was right. It was an easy fact to admit. They were in no shape to fight. Most could barely move at all. He himself was in a sorry state. There was no way he could look after both himself and the two-dozen ailing prisoners. Not in the middle of the mutant stronghold. Even if through some miracle he got them all out, he'd have to escort them to Jackrum's campsite, wherever the old mercenary had set up base – Evergreen Mills, probably. Defensible position with plenty of fallback points. The prisoners would be a burden on the Talon Company's supplies. Food and medicine required by able-bodied fighters would be set aside for the prisoners' recoveries, at the cost of the war and the wasteland as a whole.

An easy choice to make. As a matter of fact, there was really no choice at all…

Sydney looked up at his blank expression. "Son of a bitch…" she murmured, "You can actually walk away from us… leave us like this. God…what's it like, being able to do that?"

"Easy."

"You're fucked, you know that?"

"Irrelevant. What are they doing, collecting you like this?"

The relic hunter shook her head and tried to shrug, though her quick gasp and cessation of movment informed him of how painful movement was for her. She said, "They take us away and they never bring us back. I don't know what they're doing to us here. I don't want to find out. Especially not if I'm the only one who gets out…" her eyes drifted shut, and for a moment, Jason thought she had passed out. But she still spoke softly: "Fine. Just make it burn, Wanderer. Make it all burn."

"Jason nodded slowly. "Down which hallway do they take the prisoners?"

With costly effort, she lifted her hand and pointed in the right direction. Jason took one last apologetic look at the decrepit collection of captives, and moved on.

* * *

><p>There were ghoul survivors. That was important. His horror at what the mutants had done was secondary to his running tally of Wastelanders. How many ghouls had survived? Were they well-armed? How could he get word out to them? Were they still alive, or had they been killed off? Or had they fled, perhaps?<p>

There were plenty of settlements Jason had not yet heard from. While he suspected that Arefu was gone, Meresti was a well-hidden, easily defended outpost. Perhaps some survivors yet lived in the metro station. Tenpenny Tower was no doubt rubble. Despite his distaste for the tower's residents, Jason couldn't help but feel sorry about that. For the wasteland in its current state, that was a devastating loss. The tower housed several hundred people, not to mention Tenpenny's private security forces, most of whom were seasoned combatants. Around fifty experienced soldiers, and one hundred able-bodied men? A loss. Canterbury Commons was alarmingly vulnerable as well, but the same could not be said of the ANTagonizer's underground maze, nor of the Mechanist's well-defended factory. If the bulk of the mutant forces were spent on the Brotherhood and Rivet City, perhaps some of the outlying communities had survived. Overall the numbers couldn't add more than two hundred people to Jackrum's army. However the ANTagonizer had another whole army at her disposal, and the Mechanist's bots could add some much-needed heavy firepower. Recruiting them was something to be considered, after he was done here, of course.

When he made it out…

…if he made it out…

He heard noises echoing down the hallway, and slid up against one wall for what good it would do. It was also something to lean against. Limping was becoming troublesome as he felt his body weakening.

The hallway continued until he reached a single vault door. He could hear the moaning on the other side. The door was locked, and he had no picks.

But that wasn't going to stop him. Not for one second. There was a light above the door, so it also had electrical power. The locking mechanisms on regular vault doors functioned on plungers driven by normally closed spring solenoids. The doors themselves were driven by springs beneath the frame, attempting to lift the door sections both up and down. They were prevented from doing so by thick steel plungers which were removed magnetically when an electrical current ran through the solenoids. When there was no current, a separate set of springs held the plungers in place, locking the door shut.

Normally the circuits were completed with the insertion of a key, or by inputting a code into a nearby keyboard. To a regular vault dweller with little mechanical or electrical understanding, getting through was an impossibility. Thankfully, Jason was not a regular vault dweller. Even from birth, James had nurtured his son's mechanical and electrical knowledge. He had even been slated to be the next vault mechanic… until that fateful morning…

Jason had never been much good at hacking, but he could repair and operate damned near anything with damned near anything else.

Gritting his teeth against the agony it caused him, he put all his might into tearing the protective plate off of a nearby maintenance access panel. Whenever doors in vault 101 malfunctioned, those panels were what Stanley tested first. Sometimes the mechanic had needed to bring in heavy equipment to access the plunger assemblies hidden in the floor and ceiling, but first usually he could find the problem using an electrical meter and applying it to the contacts, testing for shorted and broken circuits.

Jason gave the circuit board within a thorough examination. Twenty-six electrical contacts, only ten of which mattered to him at that moment: the four hot lines and the four neutrals controlling the solenoids. Those, and the hot and neutral power lines. Yet the whole circuit was controlled by the lock. That was the switch. The break. The part which needed to be bypassed.

This was dangerous; he couldn't afford an electric shock. He wouldn't survive it. Not with the state he was in right at that moment.

But he also needed to get to the bottom of Brutus' plan, escape, and destroy the vault. Somehow…

On the floor a short distance away, he found a small, sharp piece of scrap metal. It was too small to be useful as a weapon, but he utilized it to remove the electrical insulation from the tips of one length of wire, allowing him to apply one end to the neutral contact of the lock circuit- which would provide a path for outgoing electrical power to reach the solenoids- and the other end to the hot contact, which allowed power to flow into the lock.

There was a flowering of sparks, a puff of smoke, and a quiet, bang, along with a blinding flash of light. Jason leapt backwards, the fine hairs on his hands scorched. A second later, The door slid open and he hurried through, though it didn't close behind him.

The room beyond was barren, and his attentions were drawn to the a single, solitary cot with a single, solitary figure lying on it, murmuring occasionally. He moved forward, his eye falling on the medical tray beside the bed. Med-X syringes were laid across it alongside a single stimpack. There were several medical tools there as well.

Jason grabbed the med-x first and plunged it into his arm, feeling intense relief as the pain dulled slightly. The figure beside him didn't seem to take much notice. The stimpack came next, and he felt refreshed. Not nearly recovered, but a little bit of his strength returned to him, and he was able to focus on the patient. It was a Little Lamplighter. One of the teenagers. A quick look informed him that she was female. A young girl of barely thirteen, whom he vaguely recognized. Except that her skin was rough and dark, and her veins were glowing with that tell-tale green light. Her bulging eyes bright green and flecked with gold specks. She was nude, and her musculature had overgrown nearly every other aspect of her physiology.

He noted the chains holding her to the gurney.

"Knock knock." She murmured, shaking violently. Her gaze was still blurred, eyes locked open in shock, horror and fear. "Knock Knock… Who's there…?"

Jason reached out to the medical trolley, picked up a scalpel and gave her what help he could. After the deed was done, he stared down blankly at her corpse, trying not to feel.

That's when he spotted the bassinet, and the tiny sleeping figure curled up within. He stared at it, then at the dead FEV II mutant, then back at the bassinet. Another empty bassinet had been placed beside it.

Jason Howlett felt anger erupt within him. White-hot blazing fury which made his fists clench, and all the pain dull to a background annoyance. So this was their plan? Building a nation? Nations were not just lines on a map. Not just boarders. They were people. Lots and lots of people. And the Supermutants were building one. Literally. Like the Chryslus Car company's assembly lines. One damned abomination begetting another. How many more rooms like this were there? How many more brave, proud wastelanders had been reduced to the scared, twitching mutant now lying dead on the cot?

…How many more occupied bassinets were there?

He approached carefully, listening to the birthed mutant's feather-light breaths. Each step was harder than the last, yet his curiosity and anger drove him onwards until at last he was standing beside the cot, staring down at the sleeping abomination. He reached in and flicked aside a blanket to reveal the thing's miniscule, ugly face.

Way of the wasteland. Kill or be killed. Not just for people, but for nations as well. That was war. That was what Brutus wanted. The Lone Wanderer looked down at the bloody scalpel in his hand. He carefully readjusted his grip, and brought it up and around, plunging it towards the infant's body.

Jason hesitated, the tip of the blade halting an inch from the mutant's sleeping form. It squirmed a little, but remained asleep, completely unaware of the silent argument going on above.

The scalpel clattered to the floor. He couldn't do it. Despite it all. The injustice, the anger… the entire war going on in the wasteland above them both, the child wasn't to blame. If there was one lesson Jason had learned from his adventures, it was that the sins of the father should never ever be laid upon the son. He knew firsthand what that did.

There was a teddybear sitting at the bottom of the cot, its doleful button eyes observing the whole event. Jason gently took hold of it and placed it within the infant's open arms. The child stirred for a moment, tiny green hands gripping the stuffed animal and pulling it close.

The Lone Wanderer moved on.

* * *

><p>Six minutes later, Jason came to a halt halfway down the next set of corridors. A lit sign on the ceiling flickered, drawing his attention to a single word: Reactor<p>

_That was it! _That was how he could destroy the vault; blow the reactor and burn the entire complex in nuclear fire! He took two excited steps forward and nearly tripped over the body of a dead overlord. It was riddled with bullet holes. Flummoxed, but too worn out to give it much thought, he followed the sign's directions down a set of stairs…

Only to find dozens more mutant bodies strewn across the floor in various different poses. Some were riddled with bullet wounds, others had been battered to death via sledge hammer. It appeared that their killer had used any means at his disposal. As he waded further through the battlefield, Jason began to recognize some of the signs. They were pointed to places he had been before on his previous subterranean adventures through Vault 87. He could find his way out now! Relief overwhelmed him as the dwindling embers of his hope were rekindled.

Yet he wasn't done. Not until the reactor was on its way to overloading.

He continued to follow the signs, stumbling across body after body. Dozens of mutants were scattered along his path, the bodies growing more numerous the closer he got to his destination. The entire vault must have been involved in the battle. And it was recent, perhaps the killing had been happening even during his escape. The bodies were very fresh.

Jason found the reactor room lying at the end of a narrow, blood spattered hallway. He was forced to crawl and clamour over the heap of lifeless mutant corpses in order to access the door. The room beyond was a relatively small space, housing two giant electrodes and a cosole through which the vault's reactor was monitored. The two enormous electrodes of the reactor crackled with energy, filling the room with beautiful blue dancing light. A single mutant was standing at the console between them, blocking Jason's access. Its back was to him, and it was speaking in a clear, determined voice. "_How calmly does the olive branch observe the sky begin to blanch. Without a cry, without a prayer. With no betrayal of despair…_"

The mutant was wizened and wrinkly. Jason was forced to wonder how old it was. It was stooped and weary, yet he knew without any doubt that if it wished to, in his current state, it could still snap him in half. He circled, looking for a way to kill it. Then it turned, looking straight at him, though it didn't move.

"Who are you?" Jason asked.

"Casey Jones." The old mutant responded. "I was among the first. Even before the Great War."

They stared at each other, the light of the reactor dancing across both of their faces.

The mutant spoke first. "I knew you'd break free. I told Brutus that if he wanted this to stop, he should kill you. But he wanted to punish you first…"

"And you're here to stop me now?" Jason asked. The Wanderer was bleeding, aching, and burning with some inner pain he had yet to identify the source of. His skin was itching madly and he could barely stand. He knew he no longer possessed the strength for another fight.

"No. Exactly the opposite, as a matter of fact." The mutant moved aside, allowing him access to the console. "I suppose great minds really do think alike, hmm?"

Jason's confused gaze oscillated between the console and the mutant, who beckoned him forward, towards the shimmering light. "_Some time while light obscures the tree, the zenith of its life will be gone past forever and from thence, a second history will commence…_"

"What's the poem?"

"Nonno's poem. Tennessee Williams. Night of the Iguana. Not one of mine…"

Jason nodded, still confused. "Why are you helping me?"

The mutant smiled grimly. Its voice was measured, quiet, and thoughtful. "Of all the things my mind clung to during the transformation… that was it… a poem. Nonno's poem. I don't even know my real name, but I remember that poem. You can't imagine the pain, Wanderer. Of losing who you were. You have to justify it to yourself somehow, after you learn how to think again. You have to believe you're better than human, else it was all for nothing. You lost everything for nothing."

It paused for a moment, murmuring the next line of the poem, as if the poetry itself provided him strength for the following admission. "_A chronicle no longer gold. A bargaining with mist and mold. And finally the broken stem. The plummeting to earth and then... _The fact is that we're not better. Not in the way which counts. The important way. We've done terrible things, Wanderer. Both of us. All of us. Those that aren't human anymore. Those that think they're better. You've seen but a glimpse of it in this war, this… little fight over the ruins of Washington. Just a glimpse of what we all have done to get here. To bring things to this point."

"You killed the other mutants…" Jason said slowly.

"They wanted to stop me."

"There were a lot of them." Jason told him.

Casey Jones nodded. "I may be old, Wanderer, but I am also stubborn. _And Intercourse not well designed for beings of a golden kind, whose native green must arch above the earth's obscene corrupting love…_"

"And Brutus?"

"Brutus thinks he can build a nation. They have been built on blood before, but they always crumble the same way. Noone dares to question him anymore, not even me. But he is wrong. We will not stand. Our allies will betray us, as surely as night follows day. Everything is set for you, Wanderer. The console has been hacked, safeties overridden. All you need do is press but one key, and you can bring Brutus' master plan to an end."

"Wait a moment, what allies? The people who gave you the FEV II virus. What do you know about them?"

"Not as much as I wish I did." Casey Jones admitted. "They are evil, Wanderer. Far beyond what you've seen here. They are evil, and power-hungry.I met their leader once. A man named Calhoun. And his assistant. A young woman."

"Where can I find them?"

"West…" the mutant waved vaguely. "Far west. _And still the ripe fruit and the branch observe the sky begin to blanch. Without a sigh, without a prayer. With no betrayal of despair._" It reached down towards the keyboard.

"Wait!" Jason said. "What about the kid! There's a baby up-"

"In the birthing chamber." Casey Jones told him. "I know. My conscience will not let this stand!" The mutant's finger came down on the 'enter' key. Somewhere in the myriad rooms behind them, there was an explosion. The mutant spoke quickly. "Make your choice, Wanderer. You have around ten minutes to escape this vault. If you go back for the child, you will both die along with the rest of us. Or you can follow the signs back to the vault entrance. I'm sure you can find your own way out from there."

Once again, as with the human survivors he had found, there wasn't really a choice. The Wanderer gave him one last glare, then turned and limped out as fast as the human could manage.

Casey Jones smiled slightly as he listened to the sparks and the slow inexorable buildup of power. He said, "_Oh courage! Could you not as well select a second place to dwell. Not only in that golden tree, but in the frightened heart of me…_"

* * *

><p>The Wanderer raced through the vault, adrenaline and his own determination pushing him faster than his wound would normally allow. He knew he would pay for it, but it would all come to nothing if he didn't make it out. He moved silently, his feet retracing old steps. As he passed by the room where the Enclave had first kidnapped him and stolen the G.E.C.K.. he flashed by the prison quarters where he had freed Fawkes. His feet lead him up stairs, around corners, and through the darkened, derelict, ancient, hallways until at last he reached the backdoor to Murder Pass. He hesitated for a moment, remembering the insect-like abominations. He was in no shape to fight them again.<p>

An explosion rocked his feet, and he could hear the distant thunder of a cave-in. there was a sudden gust of wind, then a second explosion. Jason hurried forwards, sprinting through the pain and the dust and the horrendous noise. As he ran, the explosions grew in both volume and number. The entire ground began to shake. He activated his Pipboy light, only to reveal two of the creatures, scuttling down the hallway ahead of him as fast as they could go. The ground trembled, dust fell from the ceiling, and a boulder collapsed, crushing one of them. Jason ran forwards as the ceiling began to cave in. a few seconds before he passed into Little Lamplight, he spotted the other creature, impaled by a fallen stalactite.

Jason ran onwards, leaping over the cracks appearing on the floor of the cavern. He dodged through the falling debris, crossing through the main chamber of the Lamplighter's former city. He scrambled past the wreckage of Knick-Knack's store, towards the front entrance. The entire cave was moving and shifting with the explosions.

As he reached the final tunnel to the surface, there was a deafening wall of noise which burst his eardrums. The cave behind him disintegrated into a swirling morass of stone, wood, and dirt. Like a bellows tube, A rush of unyielding wind picked him up, grown more powerful within the confined space of the tunnel. Like rapid white waters, it carried him the last few meters, crushing him and pushing him through Little Lamplight's door. It spat the tumbling, wounded Wanderer out into the wasteland dawn in a giant cloud of dust and debris. Far behind him, an entire area of the wasteland rose and fell, as if the surface of the world had just taken a breath.

* * *

><p>There was silence, except for a faint ringing noise. And pain. Pain too. Pain Jason knew he would never really forget.<p>

His fingers closed slowly, feeling the dirt between them. He opened his eyes, but the world was a blurry mess. He could make out light and dark. He was lying on a slope… the slope into Little lamplight. Somewhere higher up the slope, mere meters away, sunlight was hitting the surface of the world.

_Sunlight… healing. Safety!_

Once again, Jason tried to move. He tried to pull himself up, but he couldn't. He had expended the very last of his energy in the frantic escape, and now…? his battered body was cashing in. He couldn't move any further. What was left of his clothing was caked and soaked in his blood. His bones were broken, his skin burnt, his muscles torn. He felt the darkness closing in again.

A paw blocked his fading vision, and he blinked. A wet tongue rasped across his cheek, providing a soothing coolness to the burn. Dogmeat's inquisitive face lowered into view, sniffing at him.

"Dogmeat…" Jason hissed through parched lips, though he couldn't hear his own voice. The explosion, and compressive force of the air had ruptured his eardrums. The dog licked him again. He mustered a little strength and moved an arm to stroke his companion's paw.

"Help…" he rasped. "I need sunlight…" he tried to point towards the brightness.

His canine companion gave him one last lick, then reached down and gripped the shoulder of Jason's torn leather duster. It began to pull him slowly up the slope. Jason held as best he could, digging his hands in to the dirt and providing what little extra force he could muster. Together, with him half-crawling, and Dogmeat dragging, they managed to inch their way up the slope until at last, Jason was able to rest one hand in the sunlight. He moved his fingers, feeling the warmth dance across the cracked red skin.

"Thank…" he whispered, blacking out before he could finish the phrase

The dog nuzzled his neck, then padded down the slope and curled up protectively next to him, and they slept.

* * *

><p><strong>How he unlocks the vault door to the birthing chamber is based on my own mechanical and electrical knowledge. It always bothered me that there was a lock to pick. That makes no sense to me, so I changed it up a little bit. Let me know if the new version makes more sense.<strong>

**BTW, nearly killed Dogmeat off this chapter. Nearly did it. I have the scene all written up, but I didn't include it. I might at the end of the book. Post a 'deleted scenes' bit or something.**

**at over 8000 words, this is the longest single chapter I have ever written.**


	29. Chapter 29

Mutatis Mutandis 29

A fourth sniper shot pinged off of Narg's helmet and buried itself in the nearby concrete wall of the satellite tower.

He called out, "All I want to do is borrow your computer for a bit."

"Fuck off and die!" a raider called down in answer.

"Look," Narg said patiently, "I've had several different people tell me over the years that I should try talking instead of simply shooting my way through every problem. I'm attempting some character development here! Throw me a bone!"

A grenade landed a few meters away. He held an arm up to shield his visor cameras from the blast. A few chunks of shrapnel buried themselves in the thick abdominal plates of his armour. The force of the explosive knocked him back a step, but he regained his footing just as quickly. He waited a moment for the dust to settle, and then glared up at the jeering raiders. "That was _not _a bone! Not even my half-blind grandmother could have mistaken that for a bone!"

"Call the doctor, we got a bleeder!" one of the lunatics screamed out cheerfully.

"What do you mean a 'Bleeder'?" Narg replied indignantly, turning up the volume on his speakers. "I'm not even… Look! No blood. Nowhere. Not even a little bit. I'm really beginning to think that this whole 'Talk out your problems' business isn't all it's cut out to be."

In response, the band of raiders on the catwalks far above him began to rain down assault rifle fire.

Narg gave up.

Not on entering the tower, just on being diplomatic. Somewhere at the top of the enormous satellite tower was a computer which could communicate with the armed orbital strike satellites. Narg had travelled all of seven hours to get there, and he was damned if he was going to leave without finishing the job.

Feeling quite cheerful, the giant hefted his minigun and lumbered purposefully around the outside of the satellite tower, ignoring the crazed threats and insults being flung at him, not to mention the rifle fire. He found the barricaded door halfway around and proceeded to take it to pieces, using his minigun first to soften up the wall of wood and stone. He could hear shouts of alarm on the other side as a few bullets found their way into the tower itself.

The raiders on the catwalk above him redoubled their efforts, tossing down more grenades. In response, he angled the muzzle of his minigun upwards, chipping a violent path up the side of the tower until he cut the catwalk to ribbons. A few raider corpses dropped a dozen meters to splat on the ground around him, alongside smoking chunks of metal. He turned his attention back to the door. It looked weak enough; the barricade was cracked and full of holes. He could hear frightened and angry noises on the other side. The giant drew back his arm and thrust it straight through the wall. He slung the sleek white BOZAR assault rifle off of his shoulder and thrust the barrel through, emptying a blind clip into the facility. He followed it up with a plasma grenade. For good measure. The blockade disintegrated and he stepped inside, swinging his fists to and fro, wiping out the last of the raider gang. Something clanged off of his helmet. He turned, growling in frustration, to see the last raider of the bunch swinging a tire iron back and forth before him. As if it would do any good at all…

"You're fuckin dead!" the Raider snarled, waving the tire iron defensively. "Dead! Ya hear me ya fucker?"

Narg grabbed the raider's wrist and squeezed, crushing flesh and bone until the man's hand was hanging on by a few torn strands of muscle. He leaned all the way down and spoke to the stricken anarchist. "I hear you."

You had to hand it to them, the Raiders didn't give up easily. It would have been admirable were it not so damned stupid.

* * *

><p>Jason awoke in the midafternoon. He took a moment to collect himself. The sunlight was beating down on his face, an incredibly welcome sensation. The pain in his side had gone, as were most of his pains, though at that moment he was just thankful to be breathing at all. That had been far too close. <em>Far<em> too close.

He grimaced in remembrance. What the muties had done down there was an atrocity. His own actions had not been all that much better. Between Sydney and Knock Knock… He felt the onset of guilt over what he'd done down there, but suppressed it quickly, reminding himself of just what was at stake.

The Wanderer rolled onto his back and sat up. He rubbed his eyes, blinking in the bright sunlight. A few flies buzzed around him, drawn by the dried blood in his clothes. He swatted at them, but stopped when he heard the noise. Dogmeat was standing a few feet away, growling at him. The canine's ears were flattened against the sides of his head, teeth bared and eyes fixed on Jason with ferocious distrust and confusion.

"Dogmeat?" Jason said, holding out a cautionary hand. He froze suddenly, staring at his limb. It was tinged forest green, muscles bulging and veins standing out, glowing slightly even in the midday sun. Panic swept through him and he immediately felt his scalp, fearing baldness. His hair was still there, thank god. All the muties were bald, so he wasn't one yet, but…

But that water had done something to him.

Jason worked quickly, shrugging off the remnants of his duster and tearing his shirt off. His entire chest was the same forest green color as his arms, and his veins were glowing beneath the skin.

"Oh… shit…" he murmured, feeling alienated from his own body. "Ooooh shiiiit…"

Dogmeat was still growling at him.

"Dogmeat, help!"

The mutt took a few steps backwards.

"Dogmeat, please!" Jason begged, gasping for breath. Shock and panic were overwhelming him. "Please don't go!"

The dog let out one last confused whine and turned tail, racing away and disappearing over the nearest bluff. Jason took a few steps after him and tripped. His legs felt larger somehow. Different. Movement had not been this clumsy and awkward since he had been a teenager. The panic increased, and he took a few deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down and think.

Dogmeat would be alright, the Wanderer told himself. Afterall, the mutt had managed to survive by himself for this long. Besides, Jason had far more pressing concerns. He had been exposed, either to the raw FEV II formula, or to that pool of tainted water Brutus had set up for him. Either way, it hadn't been enough to fully turn him. That being said, the idea of being a mutant was both horrifying and disgusting. He needed to be human, to _feel _human again.

There was a cure, though! Rothchild had made it work on those lab samples. How many weeks ago had that been? Too many. It felt like an age. Still, at least there was hope. Where was the cure now? Last he'd seen, it was with Narg. And Narg was headed north to set up High-Water Trousers.

So… that was a plan at least: Get armed, find the Chosen One, get the cure. And then? And then Brutus was going to die. Painfully, if the Lone Wanderer had any say in the matter, _Which he would!_

Besides, he needed to get his assault rifle back.

* * *

><p>"<em>PEOPLE OF THE CAPITAL WASTELAND, IT IS I, THREE DOG! Yes. That's right children. I'm still alive, and here to fill your lives with sweet, sweet music. Better than leaving them filled with bullets and muties, am I right? Now, I'm a little short'o tunes, courtesy of our freaky green neighbors. But I got a wonderful guest here with- and get this- a REEEEAAAAL violin. You ready to rock this Wasteland, Agatha?"<em>

"_Oh, I do hope so, Mister Three-Dog."_

"_Whoa! Let's hear a little more enthusi-"_

Summers switched off the radio. "Where is he?"

"No idea." Jackrum told her. They were sitting in the courtyard of Evergreen Mills, watching the joint Merc-Enclave forces busy themselves sorting supplies and repositioning to take the best advantage of the humanity's latest reinforcements.

The enclave leader glared at him. "Not good enough. Where's the Lone Wanderer?"

"Dunno." Jackrum gave his cigarette an idle puff. "Aren't we supposed to be partners or something? This ain't gonna work if I feel like every conversation with you is an interrogation."

"This is not a partnership, Waster." Summers corrected. "We are saving your worthless hides from certain annihilation, and in return, you're giving us the Wasteland. Don't make the mistake of thinking you have a say here."

Footsteps approached, crunching on the rough sand. An enclave trooper halted five feet away and saluted. "Ma'am."

Summers raised an eyebrow. "There's a wastelander approaching from the east."

The lieutenant straightened up with interest. "Is it the Wanderer?"

"I don't think so, Ma'am; he's a big one." The trooper hesitated. "Can mutants wear power armour?"

"Oh, that's just what we need." Jackrum muttered.

Though summers clearly tried to suppress it, he still noticed her smirk. "No, private." She said, "mutants do not wear power armour. Just how big is this visitor?"

"Well his sidearm's a sniper rifle… the boys and I are getting a little nervous, to be honest."

Summers turned back to Jackrum, who shot her a look of cherubic innocence.

* * *

><p>The Tribal slowed as he picked his way through the canyon. On the edges of the steep cliffs to either side, he could see Talon company mercenaries and Enclave soldiers tracking him with their various weapons. Safely encased in his armour, Narg was all but impervious to small-arms fire and lesser explosions. Energy weapons were a slightly different matter, and he kept a careful eye on the plasma-weapon wielding troopers. Too many shots from their rifles and pistols would cause his armour to overheat. Thankfully he had never been forced to test the MK II armour against grenades. It was a record he intended on keeping clean.<p>

The Enclave… Narg hadn't seen this coming, though he respected Commander Jackrum's choice. The Talon Company's narrow victory at Fort Bannister was the result of careful planning and preparation, and it had still taken the Chosen One, the Lone Wanderer, and a fair amount of luck to snatch that victory from the jaws of defeat. Counting on that to happen twice would be irresponsible. The humans needed more firepower. The sort that only the enclave could provide.

He made his way across the central floor of the evergreen mills canyon, dodging around the parked, rusting railcars. Crowds of humans, enclave, merc, and waster alike parted for him, none of them really willing to confront him, despite the tight grip they all kept on their weapons. It was one of the perks of being a man his size; he was difficult to argue with, and if he strode with purpose, he could get practically anywhere he wanted to by walking through the front door.

He spotted Jackrum at a set of loading docks situated at the central building of the pre-war foundry. The Merc was sitting on the dock. A radio was beside him, and standing a few steps ahead of him was a stern-looking enclave officer. She had her helmet off, and her hair tied up in a tight bun at the back of her head. She took several steps forward, her arms crossed.

As he approached, she said, "That's Advanced Power Armour Mk II. No longer standard issue. That's Enclave gear."

"Sure was." Narg agreed, striding right past her. He took a seat on the dock next to Jackrum, his armour making a heavy clank as he sat down. "Enclave, huh?"

"Yep."

"Who the hell is this?"

"This here's Lieutenant Samantha Summers. Resident queen-empress of the Wasteland." Jackrum waved his hand with a flourish.

Summers scowled. "Quiet, waster!"

Jackrum threw her a sardonic salute. Narg glanced at the pair of them, smiling beneath his armoured helmet. "Well, aren't you two children are getting along like a house on fire."

Jackrum let out a puff of smoke. "Ever been in a burning house?"

Narg grinned. "Sure have. Good times. For me, at least."

"You started the fire?" the merc inquired lightly.

"Nope. Man trying to kill me did. Didn't know my armour had smoke scrubbers and heat protection. I ended up holding his head in the flames till he had no face left."

The mercernary leader grimaced. "Helluva way to go. What the hell did he do to deserve that?"

"Aint the worst thing I did to him. First fed him his fingers, sautéed in butter sauce."

"Jesus Christ." Jackrum said.

"He rallied his town and went and slaughtered another town for a bunch of piss-poor reasons." Narg shrugged. "It was my fault for taking too long to get the message back to him, but he gave the orders and pulled the trigger. And I made sure he paid for it."

They sat in silence for a moment.

"Remind me not to cross you." The Merc said.

"So long as you keep trying to keep people alive, you got nothing to worry about." Narg said.

"You're clearly not enclave." The woman said, looking thoroughly unimpressed by Narg's blasé reaction to her.

"You're a sharp one." Narg replied. "Can I ask you a question: why aren't you wearing your helmet? The rest of that armour won't do you much good if a sliver of shrapnel takes out your brain."

She gave him a dry look. "This isn't a combat zone."

"You're in the middle of a war. Everywhere's a combat zone."

"I've had just about enough of your tone, Waster." She warned.

"That being the case, I think I'll change it from helpful to sarcastic." The Tribal replied cheerfully. "For instance, you have a beautiful smile."

Summers' eyes narrowed, her stern face twisting into a scowl.

"Speaking of combat zones," Jackrum said, trying to guide the other two back on track, "we have a map. I was wondering if you could offer us some advice."

"The Enclave can handle it." Summers said. "We don't need help from primitives."

"Well sometimes us primitives need help from one another." Jackrum said calmly. "And this guy can provide lots of help. Just let him look. Our enemies are the mutants, remember?"

Summers sighed, examining their enormous visitor. She chewed her lip thoughtfully, her eyes lingering on his BOZAR assault rifle, and the minigun hanging off of his back.

"Alright." She said. "let's see what you know, primitive."

"That nickname's really beginning to grow on me." Narg remarked, rising to his feet.

"It does, doesn't it?" Jackrum asked, falling into step behind him.

The room Jackrum lead them to was located deep within the Evergreen Mills offices. They were forced to dodge and weave through heavy foot traffic as dozens of wastelanders ferried supplies to and fro, many heading down into the Bazaar to tend to the civilians.

The Talon Company Commander dodged through them into a slightly less traveled hallway at the end of which was a large room with peeling wallpaper. It was lit by a solitary yellow gas lamp sitting on a thick solitary wooden table. A map of the wasteland had been spread across it, with various little colored flags sticking up to indicate tactically significant positions.

"Right now, with every waster, refugee, Raider, and enclave soldier at our disposal, we have eight-hundred and seventy-two armed and able-bodied men." Jackrum reported.

"One hundred and fifty of them are Enclave soldiers." Summers added as the three of them took position around the map. "Scouts report seeing mutants as far south as Tenpenny Tower."

"They've overrun the wasteland." The mercenary added.

"Anyone heard from the north or east?" Narg asked, staring down at the map. Most of the major settlements had been marked. Most of the markers were green. A few like Arefu and Megaton were black.

"There's not much up there to conquer." Summers said. "Nothing which would help us."

"Aside from Fort Constantine." The Tribal said. The other two looked up at him. he waved a hand. "Military-industrial complex almost straight north of here, deep in the mountains. They've got a giant stockpile of nukes, and an armory with plenty of heavy weapons. If you have a Vertibird, go get'em."

"Excuse me." Summers said. She stepped out the door and disappeared.

"You just handed the Enclave nukes." Jackrum said bitterly.

"You already handed them the wasteland. How much worse can it get?"

"I don't really want to find out." Jackrum murmured, staring down at the map.

"What was the price, exactly?"

"The Wasteland, the Wanderer, and GNR."

"That's a hefty pricetag."

"Thanks for pointing it out." Jackrum said dryly. "I hadn't realized."

"They'll have free reign of the wasteland."

"Better than the muties getting it."

"Not by much."

Jackrum's fist slammed into the table. He glared at Narg. "Look, you want to sit there and criticize me, you try leading this fight!"

The Tribal raised his hands submissively. "Relax. I'm here to help. Have you heard from Tenpenny Tower or Rivet City?"

"Rivet City is a holdout, so far as I know." Jackrum said. The door opened and Summers stepped back inside.

"I sent a task force to fins and retrieve what we need from Fort Constantine." She reported.

"My boys are going to need some of that gear." Jackrum said, not looking up from the table."

"You'll get your little guns, Waster. A present from the American Government. In times of strife, our constitution does allow private citizens the right to bear arms and raise a militia. But valuables in that base that aren't needed for this fight are Enclave property."

"The Talon Company thanks you for your generosity." Jackrum intoned flatly.

"As you should." Summers said, retaking her place at the table.

"Have you heard from Canterbury Commons or the Republic of Dave?"

"They're probably dead." Summers said dismissively.

"North and east haven't been tapped yet." Jackrum countered as cheerfully as he could manage. "But given the state of the Wasteland, it's… not looking good."

"It's settled, then." Narg said. "I'll go to Canterbury commons and see if there's anyone left. You guys go unlock vault 101. I'll meet you back at Project purity. I also have to find the Wanderer."

"Why?" Summers asked suspiciously.

"We have our own little plot to even the odds." Narg said. "It's nothing you have to know about."

"As leader of this resistance movement, I should be informed of every tactical move our side makes."

"Jackrum's leader." Narg shot back. "I didn't see you rallying the wasteland."

"Watch your tone, Waster." Summers warned.

The Tribal planted his knuckles on the table and leaned forward. "The only tactical information you need to know is that when Jackrum's forces hit D.C., you guys will not have to tangle with Behemoths."

Jackrum smiled in relief. "That's the best news I've heard all week!"

"I bet." Narg said. He looked back up at Summers. "And don't bullshit me, you just want the Wanderer's head on a pike."

"As a matter of fact, we have a sizeable bounty on his head." Summers declared, studying Narg. "Just in case you're interested."

"You want to pay me?" the Tribal asked. "Alright, here's my price: I want your best trooper bared to his undies, blindfolded, hogtied and laid out on the floor."

"What for?" the officer inquired cautiously.

"So that I can stomp his head in." Narg explained. "Or snap his neck, or fill him so full of bullets he falls apart when you try to put him in the body bag."

Summers shook her head. "In that case, you can go straight to hell. God, you primitives are brutal."

"You're trading caps. I'm trading lives. Which one's the fairer bargain? And are you really going to do anything less to the kid if you get'im?"

"He'd get a cigarette first." Summers said. "And a wall to stand against."

"Ahh," the tribal replied. "I really see the difference now."

"The Lone Wanderer doesn't smoke." Jackrum muttered, staring down at the map.

All three of the room's occupants paused as the sound of a steam whistle echoed down the hallway outside the door.

Jackrum went pale. "_Oh, shit it's him!_" the Merc kicked the table over and dove behind it, struggling with his Chinese assault rifle. Noting the movement, Summers readied her plasma pistol. Her own face was pale, and her hands were shaking.

"Look, both of you calm down." Narg ordered impatiently.

Outside, there was a quite thud and a scrabbling noise, followed by an agonized groan. The door opened, and a Talon merc stumbled through. He did not make it three steps into the room before he collapsed. A bloody railroad spike was sticking out of his back, a single, thin thread of smoke rising from the hot metal. His killer stepped through after him, clad in the Wanderer's signature duster. Its face was obscured by the shadows of a long, crude hood.

"Jackrum…" The shadowy cowl hissed in cold fury. "I told you, Jackrum. No Enclave."

"Kid, take it easy." Narg recommended. "This ain't the time."

The Wanderer let out a deep, animalistic snarled. "Shut up, Narg! After I finish killing every enclave member in this canyon, you and I are going to have a very long conversation. Jackrum, _stand up!_"

"You'll kill me if I do." The merc explained. His voice had a panicked edge. "I think I'm good down here, thanks."

The Wanderer fired three railway spikes into the table, causing the Talon Company Commander to drop to the floor, covering his head.

"They will ruin the wasteland!"

"It's ruined already, kid." The merc shouted from behind his cover. "I ain't happy but it's the lesser of two- holy fuck!" Jackrum dove as more railway spikes slammed into the table, each impact making it shudder and tremble.

The figure reached up and lowered its hood. Summers gasped. Even the Tribal was surprised enough to raise his eyebrows, though no one caught the movement as his face was hidden. The Wanderer was a mutant. Or well on his way there. His skin was green, his face changed and bulging with the added musculature. He still had his hair, though. It was blonde, and hung down in a curly knotted mess. His eyes were speckled yellow, and glowing green. His angry gaze was fixed on the table.

"Jason Howlett?" Summers inquired formally, using her bureaucratic voice. Narg, who was standing beside her, shook his head in disbelief.

"Quiet, enclave." The mutated Wanderer ordered through gritted teeth. He surveyed her with venom-filled yellow eyes. "You're next."

"On behalf of the people of the United States of America, I hereby place you under arrest." She raised her pistol; the wrong move.

The Wanderer moved with the speed of a snake, adjusting to his new target, and firing. The hot, rusty metal spike flew straight and true towards Summers' forehead, until it came to a cold, dead stop as the fingers of Narg's armoured fist closed around it.

The room froze, all eyes fixed on the smoking projectile in Narg's hand.

"Kid," said the Chosen One, "You need a time-out." he flipped the spike end for end and threw it back. The projectile barely cut an arc as it raced through the air. It plunged into one of the Wanderer's yellow eyes, throwing the younger man's head back and tossing him against the wall, where he crumpled to an immobile heap.

Summers stared down at the Wanderer's body, stunned into slack-jawed silence by the sudden turn of events. Narg took advantage of her stupefaction and grabbed her by the collar. "You're an idiot." He said, flicking her forehead hard enough to leave a bruise. "Never forget that." He pushed her to the floor and turned to Jackrum. The merc was rising to his feet and dusting himself off with as much dignity as he could manage.

"Hiding behind the table, huh?" the Tribal asked.

"Yeah, well, I don't have Power-armour like you two. We both know he woulda just killed me." Jackrum answered.

Narg thought for a moment. "You're right. Fair enough."

"You just killed the Lone Wanderer…" Summers said, with awe in her voice.

Narg ignored her. He strode forward and slung the body over his shoulder. The hallway was packed with mercenaries and enclave personnel, all curious about the commotion. Silence fell as they spotted the Wanderer's body. The Tribal brushed through them, towering over the stunned militia. He could hear Summers lagging behidn by a few meters. The woman was very quickly recovering from her shock, and by the time he had stepped out the door into the desert sun, she was once again acting as the arrogant, demanding officer she was.

"That corpse is property of the united states government and I order you to turn it over to us this instant."

Narg finally drew to a halt in the center of the Evergreen Mills crater. He could see mercs, wasters, and enclave personnel on the buildings and railcars all around him. Summers caught up and stopped, glaring at him. He turned back and took a few steps forward, closing the distance between them so that he could stare straight down into her defiant brown eyes.

He gave Jason's inert form a gentle shake. "You want the corpse?"

"It belongs to the Enclave." She insisted. "The Lone Wanderer was a dangerous terrorist criminal, and he is wanted dead or alive. I have to confirm his death with my superiors."

The tribal nodded and glanced up. Jackrum had emerged from the mill's door, blinking in the bright sunlight. The merc looked shaken, but very much alive, and back in control. His mercenaries kept glancing at him for instructions.

Narg sighed. "You're not getting the corpse, and this is not worth fighting about."

Summers scoffed, raising a hand and signaling to her enclave soldiers. "And I'm going to have to insist. Otherwise things might get decidedly…ugly." All around the facility, the Enclave troops were readying their weapons.

"I have no doubt it would." Narg replied, unfazed. "You think the kid was bad for the enclave? You clearly don't know who _I _am."

She raised an eyebrow. "Another damned sub-human who thinks wearing power-armour gives him the right to talk to us that way?"

"Poseidon Oil Rig." The Tribal said.

Summers' face was blank for a moment, then her brown eyes grew very wide, and she seemed to freeze in place, staring up at the giant warrior. Sensing the sudden change in atmosphere, the enclave troops seemed to tighten the grips on their weapons.

Beneath his helmet, Narg grinned.

"You…" Summers murmured, caught in an almost trance-like state of shock.

"Go ahead." the giant gently urged. "C'mon. You can say it."

"The Chosen One…" she whispered, her face pale.

"Louder." Narg urged.

"You're the Chosen One." Summers repeated, caught somewhere between fear and awed admiration.

"Louder, Summers!" the Tribal roared joyfully. "So that all your little friends can hear! Even you, and you, and you too!" he pointed at various members of the enclave, all of whom shifted uncomfortably. "Even you, hiding behind those barrels! Don't think I don't see you, you short-arse son of a drunken fuckin' monkey! The hell was your mama thinkin' the day you were conceived? You should be ashamed of yourself and your children." Like a groundhog on the first day of spring, the Hellfire Trooper's head rose into view. He straightened up awkwardly, his incinerator hanging useless at his side. A few of his companion gave him sympathetic glances.

"Better, but not perfect. Alright, listen up!" Narg called out. "All'o you! My name is Narg, and I am the Chosen One. After you stole my village, I blew up your bases, and killed your president, not to mention Frank fucking Horrigan. Meanest son of a bitch you civilized heathans ever puked out. I kept Broken Hills at peace, killed the leader of the New Khans, and found a goddamned G.E.C.K.. All that was just warm-up. I'm also known as Johnson Long, so ladies, don't be shy." He looked back at Summers. "Especially you."

"That was forty years ago…" she said.

"And I've only gotten better at everything I do." Narg replied proudly. "Now, this little fleshy sack here-" he gave the Wanderer's limp body a quick shake, "This belongs to me. It is my property. Now, I can either walk out of here with everything I own, or-" Despite the railroad spike sticking out of his eye, the Wanderer moaned unintelligibly, and started to twitch. Summers' eyes grew even wider.

"You kidding me?" Narg stared down at him. "I was on a roll, kid." He dropped the Wanderer on the ground and put his foot through the kid's chest. The entire camp, enclave, Talon, and waster alike, all shuddered at the slimy, crunching echo of the Wanderer's ribs breaking. Narg continued, oblivious. "Rude of him to interrupt. Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah." He grinned beneath his helmet and hefted his minigun. "Either you let me go, or we do this the ever-so-slightly-less easy way. Now, what's it gonna be?"

* * *

><p>The Tribal stared at the body of Jason, watching it reform. Every so often he would stick his hands in to help a bone reset itself, helping all the little ways he could to insure that the Lone Wanderer grew back as quickly as possible. Even so, the damage was extensive. Hours passed by uneventfully. The sun had already risen into the stark, cloudless sky and begun its slow descent into evening before the Wanderer's body appeared to have healed. No doubt the brain took a little longer to recover. The railway spike had pierced deep.<p>

Cole had been right when he had recruited Narg. For someone of Narg's unique skillset- and young Jason's too for that matter- fighting on the front lines of a war was almost useless. Even these days wars were enormous events, covering vast areas of terrain, and involving hundreds or sometimes even thousands of people. Sure, every individual battle he participated in would be won, but that was no guarantee of overall victory. The trick, Cole had said, was to find that Perfect Moment. To be there for that special turning point. The intersections which truly decided the outcomes of conflict, and the direction the human race chose to take. Sometimes they occurred on blood-soaked battlefields, sometimes in boardrooms. Location did not matter. The trick was to be there. To watch and, if necessary, to adjust the course a little.

Cole had a gift for predicting such moments. It was nothing supernatural. The old man had just seen enough of life to spot the little patterns, hidden in the chaos. To be at the right place, at the right time. That was the trick. That was the point of their little partnership. As Narg stared at the Wanderer's slowly regenerating body, he hoped the kid would one day see the point as well.

* * *

><p><strong>HONEY I'm HOOOOOME! Or at least, back with fanfiction. <strong>

**In the game, the relevant satellite tower is being held by the Talon Company. I forgot, and kinda had to Chang (my apologies. Guess what comedy series I'm currently marathoning!) it up for the story. It's actually a pity. I might have been able to do something interesting with that fact back in Aqua Vitae when the Talons were still evil. Shows what you lose when you don't pay attention, I guess. I try to keep the details in the fic right, but every so often something slips by that just makes me cringe later.**

**I love writing Narg. He's so much fun. Whomever can guess which Fallout 2 quest he references gets ten internet points.**

**I also want to thank all of those generous readers who contributed to our TVtropes page, Children of the Atom. I really appreciate it. It provides a lot of motivation. Also, many thanks to Geraldford and everyone else who keeps sending me messages and reminders to update. Krow Blood and I are working. Slowly, I'll grant you, but hard to bring you this story.**


	30. Chapter 30

Mutatis Mutandis 30

Once again, Jason woke up. _This_ time he was hanging upside down by his ankles a full four feet from the ground. His chest hurt, his head hurt, and his memory was a little fuzzy. He knew, however, that he was damned tired of waking up in random places. Someone -and he had a very good idea who- had tied him up by the ankles and hung him over the central hoist of a rotten barn. His hands were bound behind his back for good measure. The sun was low in the sky, but he wasn't sure whether that meant it was evening, or morning.

He began to struggling, twisting and fumbling to reach his feet. It was a difficult task. Far more troublesome than he would have expected. After a few attempts which left him swinging to and fro, his abdominal muscles burning, he took a moment's respite and stopped, listening to the wooden strut creaking above him.

As he had expected, an enormous suit of power armour blocked his view of the barn's open doorway. Narg took a knee in front of him. The Tribal's helmet was off, and he was chewing on a snack cake. The old man grinned, the corners of his mouth chasing his tattoos. "Oh, Jason, you adorable zany hooligan. You have quite a story to tell. What happened down in vault 87?"

Memories of the birthing chambers and the captive wastelanders scorched their way across his inner eye, yet he had more pressing concerns. "The Enclave-"

"Can be dealt with after the muties are gone!" Narg shook his head. "For the love of Pete, kid, you need to learn some anger management. There are worse things in the world than the Enclave."

"You have no fucking clue! They killed my father! Jackrum's going to d-"

Narg burst into motion. He grabbed Jason by the hair and pulled straight down until the rope the Wanderer hung from was taught. Ignoring the Wanderer's pained grunt, Chosen One carefully reached up and plucked the line, producing a deep satisfying thrumming noise. He looked back down at Jason, who was staring up at him with cold defiance.

Narg said, "Alright, I've had enough. The enclave kidnapped my entire village. An entire settlement of people who didn't even know how to work a gun. Those who fought back were fighting with spears. _Spears!_ Do you know what spears do to Power Armour, kid? _Nothing! _But the enclave killed them anyway and kidnapped the rest, just because they _could_. My friends and my family weren't a threat to anything. Don't think for a second I don't know what that anger is, kid. All Jackrum is doing is preventing the muties from doing the same to you. I don't know if you can die, kid, but if you go after Jackrum for doing what he figured he had to, then you can't see past shit, and you're useless to me. I'm going to tie you to the biggest rock I can find and I'll drop you down in the middle of the sea. You can sit down there alone and think for the rest of time. Then I'll come back and slaughter the enclave forces myself. Then I'll leave. The Wasteland won't have you, it won't have me. It won't even have the Enclave. It'll just have Jackrum and his band of misfits. How long do you think they'll last?"

The Wanderer glared up at him defiantly.

"You going to put this aside?"

"…Yes."

Narg glared back. "You lying to me?"

"…Yes –ow!"

Narg pulled his fist back from the Wanderer's stomach, and prepared for a second strike. "You lying to me?"

"…No."

"That's better…" the Tribal let go and planted himself in front of the Wanderer.

"Do you have a cure for my condition?" the Wanderer asked.

"How did you get like that?"

"Brutus had a stockpile of the FEV II Virus in Vault 87. It's gone now."

"How?"

"Blew the vault reactor."

Narg smiled appreciatively. "So that's what that quake was earlier. I was thinking of you."

"I'm flattered." The Wanderer said dryly.

"In a purely platonic way, o'course."

"Now I'm hurt."

"You should be. I'm one hell of a lay, or so I hear." The Chosen One crossed his arms and sat back proudly.

"Where did Brutus get the FEV II virus?"

"Traded it."

"To whom, and for what?"

"Something called a Sonic Emitter. As for the who?" The Tribal shrugged. "Someone on the other side of the country. You have more pressing concerns."

Still hanging upside down, the Wanderer examined his rough, green-skinned hands and was forced to agree. "Do you have a way to cure me, or not?"

Narg examined his companion's green features. Perhaps it was his imagination, but the kid's voice was beginning to deepen. The Chosen One still had the Cure amongst his possessions. He had initially considered simply injecting it into the Wanderer to see what would happen, but reminded himself that he needed it to inject it into Project Purity. The Capital Wasteland was the last Supermutant hold-out of significant size left in North America. Insuring that it would be a mutie-free zone for all coming time, would eliminate Supermutants from the Good Doctor's rather sizeable range of options. The Wanderer would either have to wait until more of the Cure could be either synthesized or obtained, or he would have to heal on his own. Still, the _dream_ could be used as leverage.

He said, "I'm not going to cure you of your unfortunate condition until you cure the muties of theirs."

"There's not enough serum in that vial to cure every mutie in the wasteland!"

"Oh, I wasn't thinking of curing them." Narg explained cheerfully. He pulled out the laser detonator. "I just want you to blow their heads off."

The Lone Wanderer stared down at it mournfully. "My stealthsuit is gone. Same with my silenced assault rifle."

"Don't bullshit me, Jason. There was a time when you didn't have all that fancy tech. You telling me you can't sneak around without it?"

"I can. It's just going to be more difficult."

Narg grinned. "I know. That's what makes it fun."

* * *

><p>"<em>How the hell do you know the Chosen One?<em>" Summers demanded furiously.

"This has really got your panties in a knot, hasn't it?" Jackrum asked, amused.

"That man is at the top of the Enclave's Most Wanted list. He has been for four decades!"

"Look, he just kind of appeared. I don't know where or why. But I'm not about to complain."

Summers grunted in frustration and turned away. In the courtyard outside, they could hear the sound of orders being issued, and crates being packed. Their modest army was on the move, headed east, towards D.C. Summers, looking visibly frightened, had pulled him into the nearest office. She had been nearly silent in the twelve hours following the Chosen One's speech,

"He took down two behemoths basically by himself during our last battle." Jackrum said, "That's the moment you stop asking questions. And just thank whatever crazy god you believe in."

The woman kept pacing back and forth, staring blankly into space. Her movements were frenetic, and twitchy. "This changes things…" she kept murmuring.

Jackrum lit a cigarette, giving her a moment in the hopes that she'd calm down. "Who was frank Horrigan?"

Summers paused and turned to him. "Frank Horrigan was the best, toughest Enclave soldier ever to have served! He devoted his life to the American Way, and… and that's probably his armour the Chosen One is wearing! This is a disgrace…"

Jackrum felt moved to offer some measure of consolation. "Don't worry, Samantha. The Enclave was a disgrace long before this whole thing happened."

"Shut up, Waster!"

"Can I get that recorded on a repeating loop please? That way I can just press a button and hear your wonderfully melodic voice. Think about it; you won't even need to be around here anymore."

"Tempting." Summers admitted.

Jackrum sighed. "Look, don't we have bigger fish to fry? He isn't killing you right now. If you're suicidal enough to go up against him and the Wanderer after all this is done, it's no skin off my nose."

Her eyes narrowed. "So the Wanderer is alive, then?"

Jackrum shrugged. "Probably. Kid can take a lot of punishment."

"He had a bolt through the eye." She pointed out. "And the Chosen One stomped on his chest… everyone heard his ribs break. There was no way… there's just no way…"

"As I said." Jackrum took a puff from his cigarette and rose to his feet. "Look, you guys've been hunting him for years. Do you honestly think every single one of your troops missed every shot they ever fired at him? Do you think every raider and supermutant has missed? How could one man make it through so much of the wasteland on his own? I'm thinkin' the rads have done him a few favors."

"Have you seen it?" she demanded. "Have you seen him heal with your own eyes?"

Jackrum shook his head, unwilling to hand her too much information. "Nope. Just guessing. But I'm good at guessing."

Summers glared at him, and then shook her head. "I need to make some calls."

"You do that. I'm going to go see how our boys are doing out front."

They parted ways without so much as a shared glance.

It occurred to Jackrum that he had not seen much of Turner since the Enclave had arrived, and he set about asking if anyone had seen the young man. After questioning a few mercenaries, he was directed back into the mill itself, which he wandered until he at last ran across his protégé. He found the young merc in an abandoned office. Turner was in the midst of removing a beautiful young enclave officer from her uniform. The young couple froze the moment Jackrum barged in. They stared at him, wondering what, if anything, they could do to escape what would inevitably be stern repurcussions.

"…Turner?" Jackrum asked carefully, trying to ignore the young woman's bare chest.

"…Sir…" The merc replied sheepishly.

"…Anything in particular you'd like to say?"

"My duties are squared away, the packing is proceeding without a hitch, and we've successfully integrated Lieutenant Summer's Enclave forces into the rest of your army."

"I can see that." Jackrum paused a moment to let the embarrassment sink in, then he addressed the enclave officer. "You know what your boss would say if she saw this?"

"Yes sir." She murmured, not meeting his eyes.

"Good. Cos I ain't going to be there to defend you if you're caught."

"Yes sir."

"Just so long as you understand that."

"I do, sir."

"Are both your duties squared away."

"Yes sir." They answered in unison.

Jackrum nodded. She wasn't all that bad looking. The girl was well-proportioned. She had full lips and nice big brown eyes. Jackrum gave Turner a half-grin and held up his hand, extending one finger. "Remember, kid: The Teaser." He held up a second finger alongside the first. "The pleaser." His pinky finger went up, leaving his ring finger down. "The Shocker." He held up all four fingers, the first three together and his pinky by itself. "the Rocker." This time his pointer finger was by itself with the other three together. "The Showstopper." He formed his hand into a fist. "The No-Walker."

The enclave girl was staring at his fist with a rather worried expression. Turner's face was bright red, and the poor kid was staring down at the floor, desperately wishing his superior officer would just vanish.

"Thank you, sir." He said, his voice an embarrassed monotone.

"Ten minutes, kids. Then back to work." Jackrum repeated, grinning to himself as he walked out.

* * *

><p>Canterbury Commons was deserted. Narg stood at the center of the town's single street, the soles of his power-armoured boots crunching on the rough pavement, crushing spent shells. Bulletholes adorned almost every visible surface, though groups were clustered more tightly at doorways and entrances where victims had taken shelter. A battle had been fought here, though it looked as if the residents had put up a rather impressive fight. Mutant bodies were scattered all the way down the long street. The Wanderer aside, people without armour never did well against mutants.<p>

The horde had approached from the west, marching straight down the middle of Canterbury Commons' single street, and driving the residents backwards. they had been pushed further and further east until they were well trapped in a bottleneck between a building and a mountain of rubble. Narg found two human casualties there. A man in leather armour, and another dark-skinned man. Both riddled with bullet holes.

The Chosen One took a moment, examining the ruins around him. He wondered where on earth the residents could have been. Directly in front of him was a bombed out ruin. It would have made a good defensible position, except that a lack of movement meant being surrounded and overwhelmed by the mutant's superior numbers, and the defense up until that point had been conducted more intelligently than that. To his left was the brick wall of a three-story building. The most likely explanation possible was that the survivors had scrambled over the giant rubble pile to his right while the two casualties had held the fort.

Narg would have proceeded after them except for the sudden sound of skittering legs. Scores of them, approaching from the northern section of the ruins. He unshouldered his BOZAR assault rifle and took cover against the rough brick wall, peering barrel-first around the edge. For the first time forty years, he saw ants. Giant ants, larger than any he'd had to face before. They were swarming up the street in a crowded red cluster, skittering forward on thin, spiny limbs. He had to admit to himself that the sight unsettled him. Narg had always hated the giant insects, and Ants were no exception. Some things should stay small. They had no right to wander the world all huge and hairy and spiny and creepy and crawly… He was a hair's breadth from opening up on the disgusting creatures when a woman's voice echoed across the plaza.

"Halt, my minions! He is no mutant!" To Narg's amazement, the bugs did as they were told, simply freezing in place as if governed by a central hive mind. A woman wearing ridiculous spiny red armour appeared, winding her way calmly through the ant hordes. The closer she came, the more dubious Narg grew about this whole enterprise. She halted, a mere ten meters away. A child was standing behind her, wearing a dirty striped shirt and a red baseball cap.

"You are no mutant!" The woman said, peering at him through the bulging insectoid eyes of her costume's cowl. "You are human."

Narg kept his weapon raised, but he stepped out into the open. "No kidding. The hell are you supposed to be?"

"I am the AntAgonizer!" she declared, throwing her arms wide. She was wearing a thin black under-suit which was visible between the spiny red plates of her armour. "Do you fear my army?"

"Uhh… sure." Narg hazarded. "Who's the kid?"

"I'm Derek." The boy said proudly.

"Uh huh." He looked back at the strange woman. "So… ant agonizer… I don't quite understand. Do you like.. agonize the ants, or hurt them or…?"

"Never!" she spat. "They are my children and one day they shall rule the earth!"

"Are you on Jet?"

"Do not insult me you feeble-minded cretin!" she snarled. "My children will engulf this wasteland. We shall wipe out the mutant hordes and have our revenge on all the humans who would ever do us harm!"

"Ooooh-kay." The Chosen one carefully lowered his rifle. "Let's just calm down here and listen to Derek as he explains what's going on."

"She's the AntAgonizer." The kid explained, as if that would help. "She fights the Mechanist!"

"I do not wish to hear of that man." The AntAgonizer said.

"Sorry, kid. You'll have to do better than that." Narg gestured at the bodies which lined the street. "The muties attacked this place. Where are they now?"

"I dunno." The kid said, "A few are up on the hill, attacking the Mechanist. The rest just headed south. We should go to the Mechanist's Workshop. That's where all my friends are. Well…" Derek's gaze fell on the two dead residents. "Most of my friends. My uncle Roe, and Machete and the others. I went the other way to find the AntAgonizer and ask for help! I mean, can you imagine if they teamed up? The muties wouldn't stand a chance! The AntAgonizer would be all like: Now you will fear the wrath of my ant armies! And the Mechanist would be all like: Burn under the lasers of my robots, you villains! Pew! Pew Pew Pew! Om Nom Nom! Pew Pew! Arrrrrgggghh!" the child had accompanied his speech with the incredibly informative, flamboyant gestures. His eyes were blazing with that special kind of enthusiasm which made Narg want to edge away.

"Up the hill, you said?" the Chosen One asked, pointing south. He could see just over the debris pile. There was a steep path leading to a plateau.

"Yeah, at the Mechanist's workshop!"

"Good. You stay here…" Narg hesitated. "Is the kid going to be safe with you, Miss?"

"AntAgonizer." She corrected severely, crossing her arms. The Human Child is under my protection until the mutant scourge has been eliminated. They are a greater threat to my children than any mere human!"

"Good." Narg said. "That's… that's good. I guess. Look, you two just stay here and… Just don't get in the way."

* * *

><p>The plateau was occupied by a single solitary building with low windows and crumbling plaster. Before the war it had been a discount electronics store, though in the harsh sunlight, the 'Darren's Discounts' sign was barely legible. Muffled thumps and the faint staccato of gunfire could be heard from within the building itself, alongside the shouts and growls of the battling mutants. Those noises had been barely audible in the town, but he could make them out clearly now though the battle itself was not visible; the glass windows had been obscured by wasteland dust. Every few seconds a bullet would exit the building and vanish into the open air, leaving a small hole in its wake.<p>

The enormous parking lot in front was a wreck. Several burning vehicles were lying scattered across the pitted, stinking field. Mutant corpses lay draped against the cars, and piled in the missile craters. The entire area was bathed in a light dose of radiation. The land glittered with spent shells, and as Narg drew closer to the building's entrance, he began to spot, amidst the bodies of the mutants, bullet-riddled protectrons and the hulking shells of security bots, tipped on their sides and battered into piles of scrap.

The fighting inside intensified and a few bullets burst through the window next to him,, two of them embedding themselves in the door of a rusted car. Narg backed up a few steps, unshouldering his Avenger minigun. He squeezed the trigger, letting the barrel spool up. He braced himself as it began to rotate fast and faster. The muties were fighting just on the other side of the thick glass panes. All he needed to do to clear his path inside was sweep the front of the building with a steady stream of his armour-piercing rounds. The muties here had no concept of dropping to the ground, or taking cover. They would be slaughtered.

…as would whomever they were fighting…

Narg carefully let go of the trigger, letting the barrel slowly spin to a halt.

He had no idea what was on the other side of the glass. Normally he wouldn't have cared much, but humanity in the wasteland was in such a dire situation that it couldn't afford useless deaths. He slung his minigun into its holster on his back, and pulled out his BOZAR rifle, scorning its comparatively light weight and tiny magazine. Precision was necessary here, but wanton destruction was, on average, just so much more fun!

He crashed through the door of the building, shards of glass sprinkling the floor around him. Between the mutants and Narg's own bulk. Straight ahead of him was a long hallway with a strong-looking door at the far end. To his left, through an open doorway, he could see an office area, which appeared to be the center of the battle. The Chosen One had expected a sudden rush of supermutants the moment he entered, yet it didn't come. The intensity of their firefight must have masked his entrance.

Mutants could be heard just on the other side of the decrepit plaster wall separating the offices from the lobby. Narg paused for a moment, listening carefully to locate the nearest one, then he slammed both hands through the dry plaster. He wrapped his hands around the shoulders of the supermutant on the other side and pulled, tearing an enormous hole in the wall. The green abomination landed on the floor at his feet, and he crushed its skull with the heel of his boot. Bullets pinged off his armour as the mutants finally took notice of him. Narg stepped through the hole he had just created. A mutant rushed at him, swinging a super sledgehammer. Narg grabbed it by the handle and twisted it out of the monster's grasp, throwing the beast off-balance. He side-stepped the tumbling mutant and planted the hammer's head in its back, paralyzing it. Three more mutants peeked over the flimsy cubicle walls, firing at him with assault rifles. Narg fired back, putting a solid half-dozen rounds through the walls of each cubicle as he moved through the offices. The resistance was pitiful, and he felt as though he were merely cleaning up the last traces of someone else's mess.

Narg turned a corner and caught a brief view of a factory floor before a Gatling laser opened fire, scorching his armour. He ducked back around the corner, only to have the wall burst inwards from a missile strike, throwing him into the opposite side of the hallway with enough force to leave him embedded in the wall.

"Engaging Target." A synthesized voice announced.

Narg tore himself free and retreated back into the office space. He could hear the tank-like security bots following behind him. The ones he had encountered in his adventures out west had been clunky, bipedal units which shared almost nothing with their east-coast counterparts. These ones were heavily armoured, and damned near invincible at the best of times. No wonder the mutants had encountered such problems. Anyone with a good supply of the robots would be able to set up quite a nasty defense.

As he moved, he shrugged his minigun off of his back. He could hear the satisfying whine as the barrel assembly began to spin, and he turned, bringing it to bear on his robotic pursuers. Bullets began to fly the moment the first security bot rounded the corner. Armour-piercing rounds thudded through its thick chest-plate, tearing gaping holes in it, and embedding themselves in the bots which came behind. The bots which followed were not just Security Bots, but Protectrons and Robobrains as well. Narg backed away, sweeping back and forth across the office. Cubicles were shredded, throwing flecks of paint and fragments of paper into the air, obscuring his view. Desks disintegrated, and the computers upon them sparked and shattered. He kept firing. The wall behind his attackers began to crumble. Daylight flooded into the building, along with a gentle wind and the capital wasteland's rough brown dust. Rotting wooden studs dissolved.

At long last, his mini-gun stopped spinning, its barrels red-hot. Narg set it aside to cool, and pulled out his BOZAR once again, scanning what little was left of the empty room. The bots were virtually unrecognizable, and every surface was covered in wreckage and a fine layer of pale dust. After making sure that no more surprises awaited him, he reloaded his weapons and moved further into the building.

The noises of battle had all but ceased. He could still hear grunting, roaring, and the reassuring yells of the human survivors. He simply followed the noise until he found himself standing on the repair shop's factory floor. To his right was a smaller building with plenty of electrical equipment on top. A catwalk had collapsed onto the floor, and there were loose boxes, dead bots, and other detritus scattered throughout the chamber. The center of the chamber floor was occupied by a single mutant. It was piling crates, attempting to reach a group of human survivors who had taken refuge in an observation booth well over thirty feet above. The catwalks normally used to reach the booth had been torn down, leaving the humans treed with nowhere left to run.

Normally the Chosen One would have simply cut the creature down, but its enormous stature made him hesitate. The beast was huge. Standing over twelve feet tall, it was already well on its way to reaching it victims' final refuge. The mutant was clearly well on its way to becoming a behemoth. Its arms were covered in bulging muscle and sinew bespoke raw power, yet it moved with the grace and intelligence of a first-generation mutant. This was no vault 87 abomination. This was an original. A member of the Master's army.

Big and smart. Fantastic.

Narg took careful aim, centering his scope on the mutant's unprotected head. It had not noticed him yet, being focused on its task. He waited until he had a clear shot, and then pulled the trigger. The mutant bucked forward as several bullets hit it in the back. It retaliated immediately and ferociously, grabbing a piece of detritus from the pile and flinging it at Narg. The spinning piece of scrap metal knocked his weapon from his grasp and hit him in the chest, knocking him flat on his bottom.

Narg coughed, trying to get his breath back. He had felt the impact even through his heavy armour. The mutant climbed down to the bottom of its makeshift pile, picking up a scrapped protectron; another makeshift projectile, as it went. The bullet wounds appeared not to have even slowed it down, and now that he was viewing it from the front, he realized that the mutant was already riddled with bullets, and about as concerned with its wounds as an elephant would be with mosquito bites.

Narg rose to his feet. "Alright you big, stupid, ugly fucker!"

"That's very hurtful." The mutant responded, striding towards him. "And ugly is a very relative term. Now, for round two…" its voice was measured and deliberate, unlike the uncouth guttural noise which its vault 87 brothers managed to pass off as speech.

Narg idly brushed some of the dust from his armour plating. "What do you mean round two? We just met. I'm Narg."

The giant mutant paused. In so far as Narg could read its face, it appeared to be frowning. It said, "I nearly killed you two weeks ago but you jumped on a vertibird. There were many of you…"

"I think you might be thinkin' of the Enclave. I'm not them. This armour ain't really the same."

"Maybe." It scratched its chin in a thoughtful manner, and then threw the robotic carcass at him. Narg tried to dodge out of the way but the machine hit his legs, sending him into an uncontrolled spin. He hit the floor and slid a few feet, leaving long scratches in his breastplate. In the observatory, he could hear the human survivors calling out in fear. The mutant strode forward, picking up another scrapped unit as it went. It said, "I can never seem to tell the difference between you little humans. You all look like the same thing: Insects."

It swung the bot towards Narg as he was struggling to his feet. It caught him in the chest and sent him flying backwards into a set of shelving. Boxes and loose parts rained down on him, burying him.

"Now who's being rude?" Narg demanded, shaking off the blow and rising to meet the mutant's charge head-on. He ducked its initial swing and landed two blows on its side. Even with the assist of his powerfists, the enormous mutant was able to shrug him off.

"A fair point, human." The mutant congratulated, taking another swing at him.

As he dodged and weaved, his helmet's radio crackled to life. Narg paused, surprised by the sudden noise in his ears. His distraction allowed the mutant to land a heavy blow, knocking him backwards. He tripped over a conveyor and landed clumsily on the floor beyond. The radio faded from static to gibberish and back again. Then it seemed to center itself, and the noise coalesced into a man's voice.

"_Good citizen, can you hear me?_"

"Yeah. Who the hell are you?" Narg scrambled away as the enormous mutant stepped daintily over the conveyor line.

"My name is the Mechanist! I'm with the innocents in the observatory."

"I'm so very happy for you." Narg grunted, blocking a heavy blow. The impact knocked him off his feet, and he scrambled backwards, trying to regain control of the fight. The giant mutant roared down at him and stormed forward, knocking scrapped bots out of its way as it charged towards him. Its feet shook the concrete floor with every step.

"_I appreciate your assistance in saving my city, but I'm afraid it will take both of us to eliminate that creature! We must use teamwork!_"

"Good idea." Narg agreed, leaping out of the way as both of the mutant's fists came sweeping down in an attempt to flatten him. "How about you hide up there in safety while I get the shit kicked out of me down here."

"_That is a very poor plan, citizen!_"

"You sure? Seems to be working out great so far." He already hated this voice. It was the voice of a Poser. Someone who talked big game but never quite followed through on it. The sort who would place mor importance on an impressive pose before a fight rather than its outcome.

It was a slightly hypocritical thought, but Narg had earned the right to dramatically pose before gunning down anything and everything in his path. He had fought long and hard for it? What had this guy ever done?

"Who are you talking to, human?" the mutant demanded, slowing in its onslaught.

Narg pointed up at the observatory.

"Ahh. Their resident 'hero'." The mutant nodded sagely. It grabbed a nearby box and hurled it at the observatory, where the projectile clanged off the wall and burst, raining spare parts on the factory floor some thirty feet below. Inside the booth, a woman screamed in response. "No more plans!" the mutant declared.

"_I am sure these god people would appreciate it if you did not encourage the beast to strike at us!"_

"How did you hack into my helmet radio?"

"_I am the Mechanist. I am very good with machines._"

"Uh-huh. What's your plan? Can't you just gun him down from up there?"

"Stop talking to him, human!" the enormous mutant ordered, grabbing Narg by the arm and swinging him into one of the many metal struts holding up the building's roof.

"_We used up our ammunition in our frantic retreat._" the Mechanist explained. "_It will take more firepower than we have to save these citizens from that monster!_"

The mutant raised its leg and kicked. Narg managed to slide out of the way, and land a few blows to its midriff. He was having trouble reaching much higher. It snarled in response and swung at him, forcing him to duck. "Any ideas?" he asked.

"_Do you see the capacitors on the roof of the small appliance repair shed?_"

"The what?"

"_That smaller building._" After taking a moment to observe the course of the battle, the Mechanist added, "_You just went flying through its door at a high velocity._"

"I really wish you were down here right now." Narg grunted, forcing himself up before the charging mutant could reach him. "That'd be real nice."

"_Stop being petty._" the Mechanist scolded. "_There is a console up here._ _I have access to the repair shop's generators._"

"And then what?"

The center of the small chamber was taken up by an enormous generator. Several desks and smaller consoles had been placed along the outer walls. The mutant entered with some amount of difficulty. Narg took advantage of his comparatively high agility, and moved to keep the central generator between himself and the hulking brute.

"STOP TALKING, HUMAN!" the mutant roared, chasing him around the circumference of the generator. It picked up a desk and swung it at him. Narg braced himself, his armour allowing him to withstand the blow, though it made his teeth clatter. He backed away towards the door and exited once again into the main chamber. Keeping one eye on the enormous mutant, he used the momentary lull to pinpoint the enormous cylindrical constructs on top of the low roof.

"_I need you to get up there. Charging the capacitors shouldn't take more than a few seconds, but I need a method to carry that high voltage to the supermutant._"

"You're kidding." Narg rushed forward, dodging past the supermutant's grasping arms. "I don't much fancy getting electrocuted."

"I have had enough of your games, human!" the supermutant called out. "Come and die!"

"_Your armour is likely shielded against electrical shock. But that mutant is not wearing any. Just trust me. I have a plan._" A low humming noise filled the chamber. Sparks and tiny arcing flashes of electricity began to crackle along the lengths of the wiring surrounding the enormous capacitors.

The doorway exploded outwards, throwing dust and debris across the floor of the repair shop as the mutant created a quick exit from the tiny building. It turned on Narg once again, grabbing him by the shoulders and tossing him into a length of conveyor belt at the far end of the room. He grimaced as he felt his Avenger minigun crunch underneath the weight of his suit. He'd have to repair it again once this was all dealt with. What a pain in the ass this entire expedition had turned out to be…

The Mutant leapt towards him. Narg rolled away, depositing his minigun on the ground as he did so. The mutant's knee landed against the conveyor, flattening the metal construct. Nrag moved forward and delivered several strikes to the mutant's ribs, feeling a few ribs crack, giving way to his powerfists.

The enormous mutant howled in anguish and batted him away with one iron arm, once again sending him flying the length of the repair shop, towards the tiny generator room's ruined doorway. The Chosen One's head hit the tattered lintel and he flopped to the ground, sliding another few inches into the miniature structure. The visuals inside his helmet were fading in and out, and he could taste blood filling his mouth. Narg forced himself to all fours, fighting the sudden dizziness which had taken hold. Unlike the young Wanderer, or Cole, he lacked any kind of regenerative capabilities. While wearing power armour, it was easy to forget that fact. Especially given how pathetically easy everything in this wasteland was to kill. He'd gotten overconfident, and this time it occurred to him that it might actually cost him.

On the far side of the room, Tanka, the mutant general rose to its feet and grinned. This insect had put up a rather good fight. The mutant could feel its cracked and broken ribs, and the heavy bruises beginning to swell despite its vastly superior quadruple-helix DNA. Tanka shook off its momentary rest and began to march across the floor of the repair shop, kicking scraps of human technology aside as it went.

"Mutant abomination, I order you to halt!" an irritating voice called. Tanka turned, midstride. Narg looked up. Standing at the entrance to the repair bay was the crazy armoured woman from the village, and several dozen literal insects. The ants were giants, yet the largest still barely managed to reach the same height as the mutant's knees.

"Halt!" the woman said again, one skinny arm outstretched. "Or suffer the wrath of my minions!"

The enormous supermutant stared down at her, dumbfounded. At least Narg's armour had provided a challenge. Her skimpy red suit wouldn't survive a single blow. He could tear her in half. The general looked back at his original target. Narg had propped himself up against the cracked doorway, and was in the process of removing his helmet.

"This is your final warning." The woman declared. "Cease your hostilities or be destroyed by my Ant Armies!"

"Do you think to frighten me, human?" the mutant monster called out teasingly. "_Me?_ I am Tanka! I have walked this earth for a hundred years, and killed more humans than you have ever met. I have razed towns, ripped vertibirds from the skies, and brought brotherhood chapters to their knees, begging for mercy!"

"You have yet to face the wrath of the AntAgonizer!" the woman replied, unfazed. Clearly Narg wasn't the only one suffering from an arrogant streak.

On the platforms far above their heads, the mechanist joined in."AntAgonizer!" he called down.

"Shut your mouth, human!" Tanka tossed a robot at the cautious figure, prompting him to dive for cover.

The close call did not stop him from speaking, however. "AntAgonizer I know you and I have come to disagreements in the past, yet I beg of you now, help me save my city!"

"Mechanist!" the woman sounded angry. "I had hoped the abominations had finished you!"

At last, Narg pulled his helmet off. He spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor. "You two are acquainted, then?" He tapped his helmet a few times, making sure it was alright, and that the cameras were working, then he slipped it back on.

They ignored him. "These mutants are a threat to both Man and Antkind alike!" the Mechanist called out. "Force this one to the Capacitors and I will destroy him.

"I knoweth not of what you speak!" the AntAgonizer replied, waving her arms indignantly. "Your technological tactics have never withstood the biological superiority of my Ant Army!

"Jesus Christ! Why can't any of your talk like normal people?" Narg asked, exasperated.

"ENOUGH!" Tanka roared, stomping his feet.

"Exactly." Narg said.

"You as well, human!" it snarled, thrusting its enormous green finger towards him.

"Attack!" the AntAgonizer ordered. Immediately, the ants to either side skittered towards the mutant general. Tanka took a stance, preparing to stomp out the first bug to approach him. It was caught by complete surprise when every insect halted a few feet away and blew out a jet of flame, burning his skin and driving him backwards. The Antagonizer watched with a certain smug satisfaction as the mutant took several surprised steps backwards.

"Just get him to me!" Narg called to her. I'll do the rest!" with the mutant occupied by the firebreathing insects, Narg took his time clambering up onto the roof of the smaller building. He tapped into his radio to speak to the mechanist. "What do I do?"

The man directed him to the two largest electrical cables. One apparently leading into the capacitor assembly, and one leading out, though Narg couldn't tell the difference.

"_Just pull them!_" the mechanist urged. "_They have enough charge built up. Just don't connect the ends together unless you want to get zapped._"

"Good advice." Narg muttered, holding the ends of each live wire at arms' length. He turned towards the battle and waited.

* * *

><p>Tanka had encountered many enemies in his time. Some human, some insects, a few deathclaws. Even the pre-war robots. Yet nothing he had ever encountered matched the dogged determination of these Ants. The creatures were swarming him from every direction, burning and biting. They clawed and skittered, tripping him and tearing bits of flesh from his legs, even as he stomped on them. They were endless. No matter how hard he fought, their numbers only grew. Five replaced one. Ten replaced five. They drove him backwards, crawling over one another, forming a moving mountain of writhing limbs and twitching antennae, The morass scattered as he flailed and reformed, as determined as ever in its single-minded drive to destroy him. Unlike any opponent the mutant had faced before, the mass of insects was too soft to punch, and if he pushed against it he would be engulfed. Yet it was large enough and driven enough to push him. And all the while acid and fire was burning his back and his sides, obscuring his vision and crippling him with pain.<p>

All at once the fighting ceased. The moving entity scattered as quickly as it had formed, the ant horde remolding, trapping him in a semi-circle which spat fire and acid whenever he approached its boarders.

"Hey, Ugly!" a voice said behind him. Tanka batted a few of the horrendous insects away and turned. He was standing in front of the smaller building. The armoured man was there as well, a sparking cord in either hand. The armoured human said, "_Now_ it's round two."

* * *

><p>Derek stared in wide-eyed glee at the scene before him. The town of Canterburyr commons, or what was left of it, was standing in a circle at the center of the trashed repair center. Rows of robots and ants stood side by side, gathered at the entrances in defensive formations, and scattered across the enormous room.<p>

The Antagonizer and the Mechanist were standing in the center, watching eachother warily.

"Your ants could not breath fire before…" the Mechanist observed, his voice tinny beneath his metal helmet.

"Pyrosis." The Antagonizer replied proudly. "After the Wanderer sorted our dispute, I ventured to Greyditch, where I learned much from the tutelage of a trailblazing scientist name Doctor Lesko."

"Yes…" the mechanist said, somewhat awkwardly. "On the subject of our disagreement…"

"It is settled." The Antagonizer told him.

"Good." He nodded towards the silent townsfolk. "we must protect Canterbury Commons and the wasteland from this new enemy." He extended a hand. "Together?"

"Agreed." She said, taking his hand in her own. "Nothing shall stand against the might of both the Antagonizer _and _the Mechanist!"

The enormous newcomer was approaching them, his helmet hanging from one hand, and his bent minigun hanging from the other.

"Hey, Tinman!" he muttered as he passed by. "My gun's broken. Fix it. Now." he dropped his minigun at the offended Mechanist's feet and continued towards the entrance, where Derek intercepted him.

"Oh, man, mister! Did you see it? Did you see it? You are so awesome! You and that mutie were all like 'Bam! Pow! Smack!' just like in the Grognak comic books! And then the AntAgonizer was all like 'I'll save you!' and her ants breathed fire! How cool was that?"

The newcomer stared down at him, bearing an expression of frustrated resignation. Derek continued, oblivious. "And then the mutant was all like 'Arrrrrgh!' and you were like 'Die, mutie scumbag!' and then that _explosion!_ KABOOOM! And then the mutie was all burnt. Awsome!"

The power-armoured man opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. He said, "God I miss New Reno. This Wasteland is fucking insane…"

But to Derek at that moment, it was the coolest thing ever.

* * *

><p><strong>I'm not particularly fond of this whole battle scene. Or the chapter as a whole. It took me weeks to write and it's still poorly paced and kinda silly. But on the flipside, I think Krow and I were both really looking forward to reintroducing the AntAgonizer and the Mechanist into this continuity. This series has been really dark, and I'd like to get away from that a little bit as we move deeper into Fallout lore.<strong>

**Next Chapter is Jason's trip into the heart of D.C. (among other things), and then we're past the middle section and onto the final act of this story. An end is in sight (woot)!**

**Anywho, please give me your thoughts (if any) on this chapter and the story as a whole. They do help motivate.**


	31. Chapter 31

Mutatis Mutandis 31

Tenpenny Tower was no longer living up to its name. The last tall structure in the capital wasteland had been reduced to a pile of rubble, several dozen feet high. Jackrum stepped carefully over the twisted metal gates, which had been torn asunder and thrown to the ground. A few rotting corpses lay posed in the courtyard, evidence of a feeble defense. Buzzards circled overhead. A few were already on the ground, pecking at the putrid remains. The birds had certainly grown both in number and daring since the war began, Jackrum reflected solemnly. Behind him, Talon mercenaries began to spread out amongst the wreckage, salvaging what weapons and ammunition they could find. Under Turner's direction, they removed their pickings and began to sort and organize for distribution.

Jackrum's eyes fell on a brightly colored piece of fabric. A summer dress, stained with blood, and covered in dust. The corpse within had been crushed by a piece of falling debris. It still had a wedding ring on its hand, sticking out from underneath the formless masonry. He sighed, craving a cigarette.

"What do you think?" Summers asked, examining the wreckage with an air of boredom.

Not every member of the Enclave was surveying the wreckage with Summers' indifference. Turner's new girl was there, taking a somber tour through what probably used to be a garden. Plantlife was rare enough in the wasteland, requiring a decent source of water. Tenpenny Tower was one of the few places wealthy enough to afford a garden. Some smart mutant had taken the time to burn the plants. Dust from the collapsed building covered everything, and hung in the air, creating a terribly dry haze.

"I think with three behemoths and twenty muties I could take this entire tower." Jackrum murmured. The wasteland surrounding the place was a flat plain dotted with a few ruined homesteads. One quick rush to break the gate. Smaller mutants would force the humans to hole up inside their tower while the behemoths efficiently took it to pieces, and collapsed it around their ears. It wouldn't take much. One could even place a dozen mutants in the base of the tower and let the humans hiding above starve to death, though that would have required waiting; a strategy inconsistent with Brutus' blitzkrieg style of warfare. Knock it down, and let the buzzards clean up the mess.

The strange part wasn't the ruins themselves, it was the approach. At every other site the mutants had attacked, there had been mutant corpses. There had been spent shells, bullet holes, Evidence of a struggle. Yet aside from a few corpses in the courtyard, Jackrum couldn't find any signs of battle. Just a few corpses and their broken building.

"Sir!" one of the Mercs called out. "Sir, I found something!"

Jackrum strode around the wreckage to the back of the property. A few power-armoured enclave personnel were busy lifting enormous chunks of stone away, clearing a staircase leading down to a tiny dented door.

"A bunker?" Summers mused, joining him at the head of the stairwell.

"You think they're still alive?"

"Well they didn't put up much of a fight on the surface. That's a fact."

A small amount of hope blossomed behind Jackrum's jaded armour. It would make more sense to fell the tower entirely and hold up underground where the Behemoths could not reach them. He grabbed a combat shotgun from a nearby Talon Company soldier. "I'm going to find out."

* * *

><p>The tunnel on the far side of the door was a typical maintenance tunnel. Jackrum had wandered through a hundred like it. The concrete walls, low ceiling and corrugated metal floor were as claustrophobic as ever. He kept his shotgun raised; experience had long ago taught him to expect feral ghouls anywhere. The hallway lead to a rather cramped room containing a ruined terminal, a large bunker door, and a tiny viewing window protected by a grate of interlocking steel bars. A man's face was visible, watching them suspiciously.<p>

"Hello?" Jackrum said as a dozen Talon Mercenaries filed in behind him.

"_You're standing on Mister Tenpenny's private property. State your name and business._" A voice answered, echoing through a set of speakers on the ceiling.

Jackrum walked up to the viewing window and waved cheerfully at the guard.

"_State your name and business._" The glass was clearly sound-proof. Jackrum could see the man talking, but his tinny voice was still be transmitted through the speakers.

"Commander Jackrum, Talo-" Jackrum hesitated. He wasn't Talon Company anymore, was he? Things had gotten much bigger than that. "I'm in charge of the human resistance."

"_You're Talon Company._" The guard turned to an unseen comrade. "_We've got looters trying to enter Mister Tenpenny's bunker._"

"We're not looters, you jackass!" Jackrum protested. "I'm here with a Waster army. We're trying to gather weapons and support so we can actually fight the muties."

"_War is not Mister Tenpenny's business._"

Jackrum grunted in frustration "Can I talk to Tenpenny?"

"_No. You can talk to me._"

"Well who are you, then?"

"_My name is Gustavo. I am Mister Tenpenny's security chief._"

"Do you care about Living, Gustavo?"

"_Don't waste your time, 'Commander' Jackrum. Mister Tenpenny is confident that after the Mutants have what they want from the rest of D.C., they will be amenable to negotiations._"

A few of the Mercenaries behind Jackrum burst out laughing. The Commander himself was stunned. "Are you insane? Do you know how bad things are out there? The muties aren't interested in negotiations, they want to kill us all!"

"_I'm not interested, Wastelander. Get off Mister Tenpenny's property._"

Jackrum turned away, fuming. The younger mercenaries were laughing, but the veterans, the ones who had weathered countless firefights, who had stood by and protected one another through countless dangers, were looking as grim as he felt. "Get Summers down here with a group of scary-looking Enclave troopers!" he ordered. Several of the men vanished. On the other side of the glass, Gustavo watched dispassionately. Jackrum hated every inch of the man, from his perfectly-combed hair to his thick eyebrows and stupid khaki armour. It did not take three minutes before Summers showed up, toting four frightening Hellfire troopers.

"What's going on?" Summers asked.

"Dipshit ain't opening the door." Jackrum gestured at the security window. Behind the glass, Gustavo's eyes widened.

"Do you see the enclave troops here?" Jackrum asked, meeting the worried guard's eyes. "I know you do. Now, I could get them to blow your bunker door wide open. They'll shoot their way right through your security as we both know they can…"

Gustavo swallowed, visibly unnerved. "_How did you get the enclave to not blow you to hell?_"

"By negotiating." Jackrum said. "As I'd like to do here. I don't want more human deaths. It won't help our cause. But we need your-" he grimaced, "-expertise, and your supplies."

Gustavo took a moment to examine the considerable firepower building up outside his bunker door. He said, "_What exactly do you have to offer?_"

"Life." Jackrum said. "None of us can take the muties on alone, but the bigger this army is, the better a chance we have. The only chance we have. I know you figure you're safe right now, but If the muties learn you're here they won't stop until they've killed you all. You have a better chance of protecting yourselves by joining us and turning this war around. We all have a better chance. Just let me in. I'll go alone, if you want. I just want to speak to Tenpenny for a few minutes."

Jackrum had never actually met Tenpenny. He had never set foot inside the tower's grounds until that day. They never would have let a smelly old merc near the place, but he knew that the security was not to be trifled with. The Talon Company had tried to take the tower once, how long ago was that? Nine years? Either way, security snipers, and the thick concrete walls had prevented the attack from succeeding. It was also badly planned; Jackrum would have brought charges and planted them on the walls in the middle of the night. Or perhaps sending in one or two mercs –ones who could speak without that unpleasant accent which the wasteland rabble had somehow developed- to open the gates, once again at night. A frontal assault in broad daylight had resulted in heavy casualties and wasted arms and ammunition with nothing to show for it. A sniper in an upper window had targeted him, picked him out of a crowd. That was the second time Jackrum had been shot in the legs. He had walked with a slight limp ever since. Either way one sliced it, the conclusion was irrefutable: Tenpenny security guards could shoot, and keep their cool under fire. Now Jackrum needed as many fighters like that as possible.

"_Commander?_" Jackrum blinked and looked up at the window. Harkness was back, looking grim. "_Commander, we're willing to let you in, by yourself. Unarmed._"

"Fine by me." He said. He turned back and ushered the Talon mercs out of the room. Summers gave him an odd look as her own Hellfire troopers filed out one by one.

The two commanders stared at one another. "What?" Jackrum asked.

"We could just take the door down for you." she offered dryly. "You do realize you're risking your neck here."

"I knew you cared."

She crossed her arms, irritated. "Not about you."

"Well it's either that or you're just looking for any excuse to off us Wasters."

"Sounds about right."

"Lovely sentiment." He handed her his shotgun.

Summers shook her head. "This is not a tactically sound decision. I don't know why we're putting your life on the line. You're commanding this entire army. Send someone else."

"Never send anyone to do anything you wouldn't be willing to do yourself." Jackrum said cheerfully. "Now get out before they change their minds, would you kindly?"

The Enclave officer narrowed her eyes, her mouth twisting into an expression of sarcastic obedience. She turned on her heel and marched out. Jackrum watched her shadow fade into hallway. Then he walked to the center of the room and turned, facing the giant door. "Okay, I'm here. I'm alone. I'm unarmed. Open up, and let's talk."

The bunker door opened slowly, stark white light pouring into the bunker's entrance. Jackrum squinted, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the brightness. A dozen security guards, armed to the teeth, stepped into the room, forming a circle around him. The number of guns pointed at him made Jackrum uneasy, but his will was strengthened by their deliberate motions, and careful movements. These people knew what they were doing. No shots would be fired unless the weapon's handler meant it. He could hear Gustavo's voice from somewhere behind the lights. "Welcome to Tenpenny's private bunker. If you make a wrong move, we'll blow your head off."

"Sounds fair. Very fair."

Hands gripped his shoulders, and he was carefully escorted through the giant metal portal, which closed behind him. it was no vault door, but it could certainly withstand a lot of punishment. The bunker itself was not quite what he had expected. Jackrum had seen actual survival bunkers. This was just a subway maintenance area, repurposed for permanent residence. Bunkbeds lined the perimeters of larger rooms, and every available space was occupied with supplies of one sort or another. Missiles, miniguns, MIRV's, rows upon rows of small arms from assault rifles to energy weapons, and thousands upon thousands of rounds of ammunition. That wasn't all, either. There were rooms full of medicine and bandages. There were crates of Rad-X and Radaway. Enough food had been stashed to keep a dozen men fed for a couple years.

"You guys planning to hole up for a while then, eh?"

"Keeping the wasteland out." Gustavo said. "It is amazing what unlimited amounts of caps will buy you. We are the pinnacle of civilized society, and Mister Tenpenny represents the pinnacle of civilized society, and it is our job to protect his person and property from the rest of you."

They passed by another hallway, heavily fortified against invasion. Sandbag barricades had been constructed. There were four guards on watch, two with Miniguns, and two with combat shotguns.

"What's down that way?"

"The metro system." We need to keep the damned Ghouls out as well."

"Where does it lead?"

"Away from here."

"So you had an escape tunnel you didn't use?"

"We had an escape tunnel we didn't _need_." Gustavo corrected, leading Jackrum through the narrow corridors. Something was bothering Jackrum, and it took him a moment to realize what it was; he couldn't see any civilians. Every person they passed in their journey was wearing combat armour. Around three dozen security guards, both men and women, but no one else.

"Hey, Gustavo?"

"What?" The chief stopped outside a door at the end of the hallway.

"Where are all the people?" Jackrum asked. "Where are the civilians?"

Gustavo stepped aside and motioned at the door. "Mister Tenpenny will explain everything."

Jackrum gave him a critical eye, but the man was unreadable. Gustavo merely motioned at the door again. The Commander stepped through and was shocked by what he saw. Tenpenny's room was among the largest in the bunker. Red cloth had been hung from the ceiling, hiding the walls. The floor was clean and carpeted. Bookshelves had been set up against one wall, along with a computer console. A sitting area with a fully stocked bar had been set up in the corner. There was a pool table, and a rather expansive bed. A nude blonde woman was lounging on it, caught up in a jet-induced haze. She glanced over at Jackrum with half-lidded eyes, but stayed otherwise motionless.

"Greetings!" said a cheerful voice, rather high-pitched. Jackrum turned. An elderly man was rising from a comfortable-looking chair in the corner. He gripped an ornate cane, using it to thrust himself to his feet. The man's suit was a very deep shade of red with far too many frills. Something ridiculously expensive. A large opal was set at the center of his collar. The man limped over, holding out a hand in greeting. "My name is Allistair Tenpenny. Chief Gustavo was just telling me about you. He's a really wonderful help in times like this."

Jackrum glanced back at the lounging woman. "What the hell's going on here?"

"The preservation of civilized life." Tenpenny said cheerfully. "Gustavo mentioned that you wanted to negotiate."

"Where are all the civilians?" Jackrum asked carefully. "I was walking through your bunker and I didn't see any."

"They're all dead, I expect." The man told him. "I retreated down here the moment we heard of the invasion over the radio. As much as I loved it, there was no way my tower would survive a mutant army capable of bringing down the Brotherhood of steel." He laughed. "Trying to defend it would have been an exercise in futility."

"I'm not quite following." Jackrum said, a certain queasiness spreading through his stomach. "What exactly happened to you?"

"When I heard of the mutant invasion I took a group of my most trusted guards and we retreated down into this bunker."

"And what about her?"

"Ahh yes, Susan. Let us just say that the American Man has needs." The man said cheerfully. "She volunteered. In exchange for survival."

Bile rose in Jackrum's throat. "You let every single one of your own citizens die up there?"

"Don't say it like that." Tenpenny chided. "I may not look it sitting here in this dungeon but the fact is that I am a very important man. I have a responsibility to protect myself. It would be… irresponsible for Humanity if I did not. What matters are the visionaries. The entrepreneurs! Businessmen! The one percent whose wealth and prosperity keep this nation on its feet. The one percent who matter!"

"So you just let others take the fall."

"A necessary sacrifice to protect what's important."

Jackrum clenched his fists. "You had an escape tunnel! You could have held up in here for ages! The muties can't fight in tunnels this small! You could have saved so many lives!"

"The mutants had to think that they'd gotten us. I knew if they killed enough people they'd leave us alone!" Tenpenny gabbled triumphantly. "And so they have! I still have my wealth and my life and my property. I can rebuild everything! People can be replaced! Tenpenny tower can rise again." He pursed his wrinkled lips thoughtfully. "This time I think I may add a swimming pool."

Jackrum grimaced. "Those people had no reason to die. Not with a bunker like this down here."

"They died saving a visionary." The old man placed a proud hand upon his chest.

"They died saving a feeble old man and his mindless thugs!" Jackrum spat.

"That is quite enough! Don't insult me you uncivilized cretin!" Tenpenny spat, "and get off my property! Gustavo!"

The door burst open and the security chief entered the room, pointing a shotgun at Jackrum's chest. "Time to go." He said. "No sudden moves."

* * *

><p>Jackrum stepped into the sunlight and tripped his way up the stairs, to finally settle on the top step. Feeling sick, he lit a cigarette with shaking hands, and took a few long drags until he felt better. A hurricane of helpless anger and frustration coursed through him as he sat in the ruins of Tenpenny's tower. The people here had trusted Allistair Tenpenny. They had paid good caps for his protection, but when the chips were finally down…<p>

"Well?" Summers was standing beside him. "How did the meeting go?"

Jackrum glowered at the horizon. He said, "Can you get that door open?"

"Easily."

"Go in guns blazing. Kill anything that moves." He rose carefully to his feet. "Try to save their weapons and ammo."

Summers frowned, giving him a thorough examination.

"You know all those horrible things you guys say about us?" he asked. She nodded. Jackrum blew out a long stream of smoke and glared at the tower's wreckage. "Sometimes you're right. Just get our supplies. We have a war to fight, and people to save."

* * *

><p><strong>The "bunker" under Tenpenny tower is actually the passageway Roy Phillips was intending to use for his Ghoul takeover. The bunker door, and viewing window are in different sections in the game, but I combined them into one single area here. Next chapter is Jason.<strong>


	32. Chapter 32

Mutatis Mutandis 32

…Tenleytown/Friendship Station… Jason recalled the moment Darkness had first wrapped her velvet cloak about him. There had been a Supermutant, and ghouls, one of whom had spotted him eventually. He had been forced to beat the creature's head in with a rusty pipe, but nevertheless, there was a moment. A moment when he saw without being seen. A moment when he could strike without recourse, move without sound, pick and choose and pause and think without his enemies ever being aware of it. There was a power there, a great dividing line. Within her shroud, he was a god, watching life unfold and choosing, tweaking circumstances to his advantage, forever reading the battlefield like a chessboard where every opponent, no matter how dangerous or maneuverable a piece, was merely another pawn. Another step for him to easily mount. That was the moment when he was transformed from prey to predator. That was the night the wasteland had opened up to him, and he had never looked back.

He had been nervous about Narg's plan at first, setting off for Takoma without his Chinese Stealth Armour. After four years wearing it daily, letting its artificial shroud enhance his abilities, he felt weak. Especially without the Perforator. The silenced weapon had been the perfect companion. The final piece of the puzzle. Jason had hated Brutus beforehand, for all the Mutant had done, and all he planned to do. But the destruction of the assault rifle had made their adversarial relationship personal. Jason did not just want the mutant king dead, he wanted him to suffer first.

He watched from the shadows as a group of oblivious mutants passed by. From his overlook on the station's mezzanine, high above their heads, he scowled and sneered. Six supermutants, armed with assault rifles. A larger beast walked at the center. An overlord, hefting a tri-beam laser rifle. Darkness had proven to be his ally still, clad as he was in a Brahmin-skin shirt, dark pants, and his duster. Always the duster.

This would be too easy.

Jason leapt, using his own weight to drive his combat knife straight through the top of the mutant's thick skull. He pulled it out with a wet pop, spraying blood across the backs of the mutants in front of him as the overlord fell forwards. The Wanderer leapt off its back, drawing out a sawed-off with his right hand. He closed his eyes to shield them from the brightness of the muzzle-flash, and pulled both triggers, ending another mutant even as he engaged a third beast, slicing its hamstrings and then its throat.

The Wanderer vanished once again into the darkness, the only sound produced being the clicking and cocking as he reloaded his sawed-off. Blinded, and half-deafened by the assault, the supermutants grouped together around their fallen leader, only to find grenades bouncing front several different directions, only to land at their feet.

Those who survived the explosions, died of a slit throat. The Wanderer collected their ammunition and moved on.

* * *

><p>He was standing in Chevy Chase drive now, where Three Dog had taught a younger Jason of the Good Fight, and the people who needed his help. It was there he began the long journey from Vault Dweller to Messiah. The Wasteland was his home, a special place, one that needed nurturing and protection, sometimes from itself. His mother and father had both died for the dream of a better world, but for Jason, that dream had started with Three Dog at Galaxy News.<p>

The Lone Wanderer did not visit the structure itself, choosing to dart down a few back alleyways towards Vernon Square. He didn't want to visit Galaxy News now. He wanted to remember it as it was, standing proud and defiant against the mutant hordes, a giant middle-finger insulting the world, challenging the irradiated wastes to deliver a blow humanity couldn't shake off. It had been a heartening sight, a majestic sight, and he had no intention of ruining that dream.

As it happened, he encountered another patrol near the subway entrance. This group was comprised of the dark-skinned mutants. Those usurpers who, with their stealthboys and quiet steps thought they could enter his world and tame it, tame him. They thought they could survive him. They did not, in the end. Nor were any aware of them aware of any of the others' passing. Their lives simply ended, and their bodies vanished into the darkness and the rubble

The locations flowed by as quietly as he slipped through them, all with accompanying memories. There was Vernon square, where he had rescued Reilly's stranded mercenaries, and Abernathy Station where he had nearly been torn to pieces by Mirelurks. It had been a slog the first time. A protracted, grueling exercise in restraint and endurance as he fought through multitudes of armour-shelled Mirelurks. This time, with the added experience of two years of stealth, not to mention Point Lookout, he passed through with barely a whisper.

The route brought him swiftly to Takoma itself at the heart of downtown D.C..

After all of that time spent roaming the wasteland, Jason felt like he had finally come home. The mutant patrols were a dozen strong, and frequent enough to be a challenge. Sometimes all that lay between him and a bullet-riddled fate was the thin layer of dust covering a shop window. Sometimes it was a layer of plaster, or a derelict car. Sometimes it was no more than a shadow, but that didn't matter. This was Jason's city. With its wide streets, tall buildings and art-deco masonry, this was home, and he was the master of his domain.

The hordes did not see him. How could they? The darkened streets, with their rusted vehicles, enormous skeletal trees and derelict buildings he had an abundance of methods to move about undetected. The mutants would come upon a body, every so often. One or two unlucky mutants had gotten too close for the Lone Wanderer's comfort, and had suffered a silent death. Though in truth, leaving a trail did not matter. No mutant could reach Takoma before he did. They could only follow his trail. Their fortress would have no warning.

* * *

><p>Jason reached the Behemoth campsite at just past midnight. It was a well-hidden area, previously only accessible through a crumbling, easily-missed townhome. The dirt path beyond was winding and boulder-strewn. Jason kept a low profile, moving through the gloom from shadow to shadow. He used the night sky and the dim horizon to outline the ground ahead, searching the path for supermutant profiles. As he neared the abandoned factory, he could hear the distant roars of the Behemoths, and shouted guttural orders. He could not see the behemoths themselves; they were in the parking lot, beyond a rock formation to his left.<p>

The ground further down the path was lit with floodlights, removing his greatest asset. He clambered up a low bluff, crawling on his stomach to the edge of the lit perimeter. The factory was a quadruple-story minimalistic building with straight vertical walls, and few ground-floor windows. The roof had been lined with barbed-wire. Several gun emplacements, an idea probably taken from Jackrum's defense of Fort Bannister, had been set up at varied intervals along the roof, complete with rocket-bearing sentries.

The courtyard below had been reinforced with sandbag piles and an electrified fence blocking all access from the outside. Within the compound, Jason could hear the screams of captured humans, and the bellowing of celebrating mutants. They were gathered in circles around a central water-pipe system. Oil barrels, alight with flickering flame dotted the encampment. Sacks of flesh were being passed around the mutant circles. Overgrown teeth tore at the ragged bunches of human flesh, and crunched through bone as the Horde ate their nighttime meal. Several mutants were on their feet, growling and yelling and firing off their weapons in a celebratory manner. The noise carried high into the night sky, which had grown much darker in comparison to the fortress's lights.

In the midst of the chaos, Jason could see the generator chugging away, protected by two stern overlords. Perhaps it would have been a viable target, as it looked to be keeping the floodlights going as well. But Jason needed the light as much as the mutants did. He needed to be able to confirm the Behemoths, both in numbers and location before he utilized Narg's laser detonator. On top of that, he needed a safe place from which to detonate the nukes. Somewhere visible, yet with enough distance that he could survive the blast. All of this depended on the assumption that the old man had managed to activate the nuclear strike satellite systems. Narg probably had; the Tribal was far more competent than Jason would have expected. Aiming the detonator from the factory roof made the most sense to Jason. But first he would have to clear it.

Keeping his profile to a minimum, Jason carefully pulled out his sniper rifle and examined the situation. He grimaced and laid his weapon to the side. After that, he gently removed his duster.

This was going to be painful, he knew. The duster was his last symbol. His bandana was with Sarah in Vault 101, the Perforator was in pieces somewhere underground. Now he had to sacrifice his trusty regulator duster. Yet necessity overrode all other concerns. He could not let Jackrum's forces fight behemoths. He would not gamble the future of the Wasteland for a finely crafted piece of leather.

To gain secure access to the rooftop, he needed to eliminate the sentries and the turret operators. To do that, he needed to be able to operate a firearm capable of eliminating mutants from that range. If he had the Perforator, this would have been far easier. Unfortunately, he didn't. the sounds made by the mutant horde would mask the rifle's report, or so he hoped, but nothing would hide the muzzle flash, which would be clearly visible in the darkness. Very easy to spot. Jason could not afford to risk alerting the mutants. The nuclear strike had to come as a complete surprise.

He laid the duster over the tip of his muzzle, letting it flare out around his rifle. He kept it fixed in place under his elbows as he lay in the prone position. He selected his first target: a lone sentry at the far end of the factory. He waited until a mutant in the courtyard let off a burst of assault rifle fire, then squeezed the trigger. The sniper rifle bucked against his shoulder, and his duster billowed outwards as the lit gasses expelled from the muzzle and flowed outwards. The sharp report echoed around the courtyard, and down the boulder-strewn approach, but went thankfully unnoticed by the mutants. The sentry's back arched and it disappeared from view, falling off the far side of the fortress. Jason worked quickly, eliminating as many sentries as he could spot, as fast as his noise cover allowed. He set to work on the turret operators, choosing the most isolated first. The turrets were well-armoured, but the mutant's head was visible in a viewing slit, just a foot above the minigun barrels. Jason took a deep breath, let it half-out, and fired. The bullet traveled neatly, tearing through the fabric of his duster, flying across the courtyard, through the slit and into the mutant's left eye. The beast slumped back in its seat, its arms falling from the turret controls. In the darkness, the difference between living and dead would hardly be noticed. Jason nodded to himself and set to work on the rest. Every moment a beast would come close to finding one of its slain kin, it too would die. The mutants below did not seem to notice the added gunfire, and Jason was reminded once again that while Brutus himself had fought this war in an intelligent way, most of the beasts he commanded were just as dim-witted as they always had been.

The Lone Wanderer was on his fifth target when disaster struck.

His bullet hit home, but his shot the mutant's head burst as the bullet passed through. pieces of flesh rained down into the courtyard. A few droplets of blood and a chunk of skull landed on the shoulders of a supermutant brute. The beast brought its enormous hand up to wipe away the blood, and it peeled off a section of skull, with the skin still attached. The blithering beast looked skywards, clearly curious as to the source of the gore. The Wanderer could not kill it as it was in the thick of the beasts. The brute got to its feet and began to lumber across the courtyard towards a group of smarter-looking mutants, holding the flesh out in front of it as evidence.

"…Fuck!" The Wanderer breathed. He slid back into the darkness and got to his feet. He slung his sniper rifle over his shoulder and scampered quickly across the rocks, heading towards his right. He hoped to find a way to circumvent the mutant defenses. The path the mutants had lit up was the only viable approach for a large force choosing to attack the fortifications, but one man could crawl and climb through the rocks with relative ease, and the peace of mind which came with knowing that most of the lookouts were dead. Jason searched carefully and soon found an outcropping both tall enough and close enough to allow him to jump over into the compound. The nearest wall was in a relatively secluded area, with several large pipes obscuring it from most of the horde's view. A single sentry was patrolling the inner edge of the electric fence, and Jason landed just less than six feet ahead of the creature, though his enemy was between him and the wall.

They stared at each other, the mutant's jaw slack with shock. The Wanderer reacted first, pulling out his knife and whipping it into the mutant's throat. The beast gargled and fell backwards, but Jason was already moving forwards. The Wanderer retrieved his knife as he passed by, securing it in the sheath on his belt.

The Wanderer reached the wall one second later, and immediately began his climb. He clambered up the brick wall, finding finger-holds and edges for the toes of his combat boots to grip. He felt excessively exposed, especially once he reached a height at which the pipes no longer concealed him. Any mutant who looked in that direction would see him silhouetted against the night sky. A trickle of dust floated down, and he looked up to see a Supermutant master standing directly above him, watching the very approach he had circumnavigated. The mutant had yet to register the deaths of the turret operators to either side, but if he wasn't dealt with soon, he would. The risk was too great.

Gripping the wall with his left hand, Jason reached to the small of his back and pulled out the silenced pistol he had stowed there beside the laser detonator. He brought it up and fired two shots through the soft tissue under the mutant's chin. The beast tipped forward and fell with barely a grunt. He hugged the wall and felt the corpse whistle past him to crunch on the ground below, hidden by the darkness and the clamor.

Jason kept climbing. No sooner had he laid hands on the roof of the factory than he heard the shouts of alarm from the campsite below. The two corpses had been spotted, and as he rolled onto the roof, he could hear the sudden turmoil, and the thudding of approaching feet as the horde gathered around the dead sentries.

He had little time left, and not enough for stealth. Three mutant sentries were left on the roof, and all three had spotted him as he peaked the summit. Jason shouldered his sniper rifle and fired three shots, putting all three beasts down even as they readied their own weapons. The Wanderer ran across the roof, keeping his eyes fixed on the nearby parking lot. He could see the Behemoths moving around, some were seated in their own circles, chewing on god only knew what. A few were watching curiously as the fortress wound up to a state of alarm.

Jason didn't bother to count, but an estimate of shapes in the darkness put the Behemoth number at around four dozen. More than enough to wipe out Jackrum's army. Jason pulled out the Laser detonator and pointed it at the center of the Behemoth campsite. He steadied it, and pulled the trigger, holding it down even as the mutants below began to fire blindly at the rooftop, bellowing in rage. The behemoths began to rise to their feet, taking note of the sudden chaos. The device began to beep. Slowly at first, but growing faster by the second. A few of the more curious behemoths began to march across the parking lot towards the factory. The device let out a high-pitched whine, and then the sky lit up.

Then there was intense light, as bright as the sun. Jason felt heat and a great, terrible gust of wind which took the fortress he was standing on to pieces, along with everyone and everything surrounding it.

* * *

><p>The Lone Wanderer opened his eyes. Everything was spinning, and covered in a thick haze. He could make out dark shapes moving all around him, and the blue of the sky above his head. His entire body felt raw and burned. He had not felt this badly since all those months ago with Sarah. His last trip to the Pitt, when every car on the bridge had exploded with him at the center. It had taken him days to recover from that. How much time had passed now?<p>

The white noise which saturated his world was slowly fading, transforming into intelligible sounds. At the same time his vision was beginning to clear. A dark shape hovered over him and morphed into Brutus, the Supermutant king. The mutant's face was lined with cold, hard fury. His eyes boiled crimson with something far beyond rage.

"M'rifle…" Jason reached out an unsteady hand towards the familiar Chinese assault rifle slung over his enemy's shoulder.

The mutant's voice was low and callous. "It is mine now, Wanderer. I will keep it to spite you. Do you have any idea how much trouble you have caused?"

Jason blinked myopically, feeling both too weak and too sick to react. He could only watch.

"One third, Wanderer." Brutus intoned coldly. "One third of my entire army, my fortress, and all of my behemoths. Not to mention our breeding pens, almost all of my FEV II virus supply, and Casey Jones – our most beloved general, and my closest friend. I would kill you, but that is not nearly painful enough a punishment. Not _nearly_ painful enough, _do you hear me?!_ You will be left alive, Wanderer! And you will watch the human world burn. Better still, you will do everything in your power to help me start the fire. I am in need of a new alpha, after all, and you are already well on your way." He looked up at his mutants, who had formed a circle around them. "Pick him up and bring him to Project Purity. We've a battle to fight."

* * *

><p><strong>It is very difficult to write a chapter with almost no dialogue. More still to keep bringing out original mutie-killing material at this point. How many different ways can you pick to end a mutant life? Even pure action tends to lose its taste after a while. I hope the weight and suspense built up over previous chapters adds more to the atmosphere of this one than I felt while writing it. Right now I'm just glad it finally got out. It wasn't one I was looking forward to writing, but it IS a major roadblock passed.<strong>

**I feel like Jason's been neutered a little in this story. A lot of that is owed to Narg and his alternate form of badassery, but I wanted to remind us why Jason is so feared/respected by the wasteland.**

**A reader informed me that it's been a quarter of a year since my last update. I cannot keep apologizing for these delays. I can only beg. So here's my begging: If you've read this chapter, please review. Even if it's anonymous and it only says "I'm still reading". I got back to this story because enough people started to pester me. I'm trying to get my nearly atrophied wheels turning. It's been far too long, and need to know there's still an audience for this.**


	33. Chapter 33

**So…**

**Apparently there's still an audience. That is a LOT of people who responded, both in reviews and in private. Thank you to every single one of you. I hadn't realized there were **_**nearly**_** that many people still interested. Now I just feel like a fool. I'm both overjoyed and amazed that there's so much support for this series. I feel like the whole fandom just stood up to shout me out my stupor. Thank you guys. :)**

**Anywho, without further ado…**

* * *

><p>Mutatis Mutandis 33<p>

_In a way, Sarah thought as she watched the Vaulties approach her, this was her fault. She should not have been wandering the reactor sublevels, especially that late at night. But she had to do it. Sleep was elusive at best, and the few hours she could manage always left her feeling more exhausted than she would have been had she stayed awake. The struggle to maintain herself, to not let the sound of crashing waves and floating buoy bells overwhelm her was too much, and it grew worse around others. She needed solitude. She had craved it enough to risk this, even though she knew it might result in a confrontation._

_The vault had been in a tense state for a while now, and there were a few vault dwellers who wanted to get back at her specifically. In their view, the Wasters had usurped their home, so perhaps their anger was somewhat justified. The simple fact was that she could not bring herself to care. Even after they found her, all she wanted was for them to leave her alone. She was not afraid. At least, not for herself._

_There were three of them, all wearing identical leather jackets. The two followers were unfamiliar to Sarah, but she recognized their leader; a pale young man with a close-cropped haircut. A fuzzy memory floated through Sarah's hazy mind. Wally Mack was his name, she was sure of that. She had pointed a pistol at him, threatened him out of Jason's apartment. The man had obviously neither forgotten, nor forgiven. A baseball bat dangled loosely from his left hand. The other two were armed as well._

"_You're in the wrong place, Waster!" Mack declared quietly. He tapped the bat on his palm. "All of you are. Think you can walk all over us vault dwellers? I think it's time the Tunnel Snakes taught you people a lesson."_

"_I didn't want to be here!" Sarah replied carefully, eyeing the man's weapon. She could hear the buoy bells beginning their toll, and fought to keep them out._

"_We don't want you here, Waster." The boy proclaimed coldly._

"_Then let me go."_

_Wally Mack grinned. "Oh, we're long past that."_

_A sudden throbbing headache assaulted her, emerged just behind Sarah's eyes, and she took a few steps backwards, pressing her palms into her face. Unbidden images flooded her mind. Her thoughts were haunted by more than violent acts. She saw a foggy, repulsive realm far removed from the earth. She was catching glimpses now. Where before her memories had been filled with merciful holes, she now saw images. _A city of kaleidoscopic grandeur, with thin towering spires of unsettling geometry and impossible colors-

_Sarah stumbled backwards and landed painfully on the floor. Images of were flickering past her inner eye. She could hear voices, echoes of the eldritch chants that had summoned the personified nightmare of Point Lookout._

_A human voice broke through the haze. "She alright? She doesn't look good, man."_

"_Should we care? You're a lot less tough without your gun, aren't you." That was the leader. _Kill the leader!

_Her mind only partially her own, Sarah saw growing things. _Fruit, shaped as human teeth. Clutching vines, writhing roots, and temple with fluid carvings hidden deep, deep beneath the bog. At its apex, the pedestal. Graceless forms encircled it, amoebous and slithering.

Sacrifices!_The whispers demanded. _Death and rebirth! Ug-Qualtoth the dead god dreams of you! A great crack shall open in the earth and swallow all!

"Shut up!"_ Sarah yelled, her head throbbing. _"Leave me alone!"

_The vault was a long way away, but she could still hear the three humans standing there._

"_What the hell'd she say? Was that French?" _

_Their leader answered. "Who gives a fuck. It wasn't American English. Let's just do the crazy bitch and go!"_

_The world refocused, and Sarah's gaze was suddenly crystal clear. More clear than it had ever been. She could see all of them._

All of them.

There was the young blond woman, sprawled out in the basement of her concrete prison. There were the three vault dwellers around her, intending to do her harm. The leader stepped forward, using repurposed plant matter to crack his fellow primate's head open; the opening salvo of an irrelevant war.

In another level of the vault, Elder Rothchild was pacing back and forth in his circular office, pondering how to keep his little concrete world together. Kodiak and Glade sat two levels below, playing cards. Kodiak had the winning hand, but was bound to lose.

At the vault's door, humans gathered for a battle, as did the supermutants across the irradiated river. Another war, and a minor event, given what was to come.

Across the continent, a city and the surrounding desert at the brink of war. It was full of lights, enough to drown out the sky above. Whores danced, gangsters plotted, and money changed hands. A young woman with a history of violence spoke of peace while her surviving victim plotted her destruction: A secret war.

A ghostly city with lumbering, wayward guardians, as deadly as the air itself. Two ancient rivals, one dead and the other still alive, battled for the riches of a vault, and the love of a woman: An ancient and private war.

A canyon, miles away from the city. Life grew there, only for death to defiled it again. The Burned Man preached violence, his acolyte, peace: An undecided war.

All of those little battles. All of those little wars. They were all to be drowned out in a sea of blood.

Sarah saw a facility in Arizona. A former prison where the true Caesar and his allies plotted the second apocalypse, and planned humanity's rise from the radioactive dust. The second apocalypse. A larger war. And war? War never changes.

Yet there was a note of discord. A loose thread, threatening to unwind the magnificent tapestry. An unkillable man, a Child of the Atom, fighting against the symphony, in all its movements, as he had been since he had first walked the earth.

* * *

><p>The explosion lit up the distant skyline of downtown D.C.. Even from the scenic overlook outside vault 101, Jackrum could feel the earth shake. He could hear the distant tumultuous sound of shattering glass as the force of the explosion rippled through D.C.'s core, destroying what few panes remained. A few of the taller skyscrapers crumpled into a cloud of pale dust which erupted over the city, obscuring the brilliant oranges and purples of the wasteland sky beyond. Seconds later a gust of wind arrived, pelting the Waster forces with particles of dust. Jackrum could see the progression of the wave as it passed through his army. The troops all held up their hands, rank by rank to cover their faces. As the dust cloud hit him, he did the same, envying the Enclave troops and their power-helmets. Jackrum paused a moment to let the dust settle, and then pulled his crumpled cigarette package out from under his breastplate.<p>

"What the hell was that?" Summers demanded, striding up the dusty path to stand beside him.

"The Wanderer, probably." Jackrum guessed. He could hear murmurs spreading through the ranks on the road below him. A few whoops and hollers were shouted as the desperate and weary wasters thanked their savior and rejoiced in what must have been a momentous blow to the Mutant hordes. Jackrum took a few steps forward and shouted down to his commanders. "Get the troops to pack it up! Keep them quiet. I don't want any mutie scouts knowing how close we are."

Being discovered was not a likely scenario. Jackrum had his own scouts paced at intervals ahead of his army, all the way to the Potomac, keeping watch for a preemptive mutie strikes. He had the north and south approaches covered as well. Any mutant scouts would be spotted long before they got near the bulk of the human army. Tomorrow was certainly promising to be a long day.

The Merc leader turned away from the city, and treaded down the slope towards the rickety wooden door of Vault 101. For a fraction of a second, he wondered how on earth the Vault hadn't been raided yet, being protected by such a ramshackle partition. Then he realized that he probably was not getting enough sleep, and that the enormous cog-shaped monstrosity beyond was protection enough.

The tunnel leading down to the actual vault door had a low-hanging roof which looked to be one weak explosion from collapsing, making his short journey very uncomfortable. The two techs working on the vault door were both Enclave, as were the six leaders of the entry team. A dozen Talon mercs would follow behind, armed with combat shotguns. Jackrum had given his team strict and professional instructions to 'spread their fucking brains all over the walls' in case the Enclave troopers decided to try anything. He knew a combat shotgun shell at pointblank range would finish an enemy, power-armour helmet or not. Jackrum trusted the Enclave far enough to want to open the vault, but nothing beyond that. The former government shared the Brotherhood of Steel's strange obsession with old-world tech, but lacked the ethical scruples which had allowed the Brotherhood to coexist peacefully with regular Wasters, and Jackrum wasn't sure whether or not Summers had any special orders of her own. It was wisest to play it safe.

"Sitrep?" Summers barked. "We want in there, Sergeant. How long is this going to take?"

"A little while yet, Ma'am." The technician reported. "We could use some more light." He and his partner had opened up the control board, and they were both elbow-deep in wiring, taking readings from an electrical meter and noting them down in a small black book, alongside plenty of calculations. The circuit board they needed to install lay on a clean cloth atop the control panel. "I don't know who took this damned board out, but it's hell to reinstall. He really mussed up the wiring." The tech reached for the yellowing, crusty circuit board, picking up a can of electrical contact cleaner along the way.

"It was the Wanderer." Jackrum supplied. "He took it out to prevent the muties from getting into the vault. The enclave technician's hand withdrew from the board as if scorched, nearly dropping it in the process. He and his partner stared down at the electronics as if the inanimate technology had suddenly become possessed, or tainted by an evil spirit. Jackrum grinned in satisfaction. It was nice, sometimes, to savor the little victories. They were going to be in a pitch battle tomorrow with the same muties who wiped out the Brotherhood, yet Enclave grunts still found time and energy to be scared of the Wanderer.

Summers rolled her eyes. "Get it done, Sergeant. I'll see to it you get more lanterns."

"Yes Ma'am." The man said, his returned to his work, somewhat lacking in enthusiasm.

Jackrum and Summers turned to consider the vault door itself, thick and heavy as it was. For two centuries it had held back the Wasteland. In a way, Jackrum could understand the residents desire to keep it closed. It was entirely likely that the last true remnants of old-world culture, old-world learning, and old-world thinking existed just beyond that impenetrable barrier. To destroy it? A crime, possibly. But Jackrum had already committed worse crimes to see Humanity this far.

Besides, Old-World thinking hadn't done Humanity much good in the end anyway…

* * *

><p>Glade's first visit was to the vault's mortuary. The room itself reeked of death. Kodiak was already there, staring down at the bodies. The two vault dwellers bodies were laid out on cold tables. Their skin was pallid, their eyes wide with shock, though glazed over. The wounds inflicted upon them were grievous, and their suits were stained with blood.<p>

"What's the story, Greg?"

"This one died of a headwound." Kodiak reached over to the nearest corpse and gently gripped it by the chin, turning its head to the side. The movement revealed an enormous hole with jagged edges. Ridges of pale bone circled the gaping maw, flecked with dried blood. Brain matter was visible between the cracks, though the victim's blood-soaked hair obscured the worst of it. Glade grimaced. "How?"

"A baseball bat." Kodiak said, pointing to an adjoining table. There was indeed a baseball bat there, alongside an ancient rusted kitchen knife.

"Take a look at the second body." Kodiak prompted.

Glade obeyed, circling the table until he came to the shorter of the two victims. The man's chest was a bloody mess of deep stab wounds with puckered, yellowing lips and brown bruises. They were concentrated in the lower abdomen, just below the ribs.

"seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve…" Glade fell silent, counting as many wounds as he could find. "…Jesus…"

"Twenty-five in total." Kodiak said quietly. "Sarah didn't have to… she knows how to kill quickly. Neck or inner thigh, right? I mean why that many? Right in the gut, too… If she were fighting in self-defense she would have finished it quickly, right?"

Glade stared down at the victim. "This is the same one who she booted out of the Wanderer's apartment."

"I know…"

Glade glanced across the table at Kodiak, their expressions identical as they each considered the mental state of their former leader. "Where is she, Greg?"

"Solitary confinement." Paladin Kodiak's tone slid from official to personal. "But it's bad, sir. Like she was after she got back from Point Lookout."

Glade let out a long, tired breath. He had expected as much.

"Take a look at her knife, though." Kodiak led his superior over to the second table and handed him the weapon. At some point in the past, it had been a regular kitchen knife. Yet the blade had that thin, ragged quality carried by weapons which had been sharpened far too many times, and the handle was a porous grey wood. Very light and almost soft to the touch. The handle was driftwood, bleached on the open sea by the salt and sunlight.

"I've never seen anything like it."

Glade was forced to agree. All the kitchen knives in the capital wasteland had handles of plastic, or polished hardwood. None of the knives Glade had seen shared the strange bone-like qualities of this one.

"That isn't the strangest part. Check this out." Kodiak produced a small vial of blood from a drawer beneath the table.

"Where did you get that?"

Kodiak thrust a thumb over his shoulder at the dead vaulties. He casually poured the vial out over the knife. To Glade's amazement, the blood seemed to vanish into the handle. It was porous, yes, but this was something else entirely. The blood flowed freely across the blade, dripping down the table, but wherever it touched the pale wood, it would seep into the cracks, flowing along the seams and grains before vanishing deeper into the wood.

"Touch it." Kodiak prompted.

"I think I'd rather not." Glade said. He bent down until his eyes were level with the table and peered more closely at the stark, cracked handle, watching the last droplets of blood seek out cracks and fissures, some defying gravity to get where they wanted to go.

"The hell?" he murmured, eyes narrowing. It may have been his imagination, but the very tip of the blade was vibrating ever-so-slightly.

"When I tried it the first time, the handle was dry after. No stains or anything." Kodiak informed him. The young paladin had taken a few steps back from the table. Glade couldn't blame him. The Star-Paladin rose and searched the drawers until he found a roll of bandages. He unwound the strip and bunched it up.

"What are you doing?" Kodiak asked carefully.

"Letting Sarah answer some questions." Glade explained grimly. "I've never seen anything like this before. But I bet she has."

"Glade, I don't know what happened to Sarah at Point Lookout. No one does. But seeing how fucked up she was when she got back… it might not be a good idea to put her and that knife in the same room together."

Glade paused, staring down at the knife. He said, "You might be right, but two people are dead, Greg. We need answers."

* * *

><p>Rothchild rubbed his forehead as he stared out the small circular window of the Overseer's office. A crowd of angry vault dwellers were gathering in the atrium, led by the dead boy's father. The man was shouting obscenities at Rothchild, and making some very lewd gestures. The moment the crowds had begun to form, Rothchild had locked down the upper levels of the vault, creating a safe haven for the wasters and separating the two factions. Brotherhood remnants along with one or two of the more level-headed Megaton residents stood on the balcony above, weapon holstered but visible.,<p>

That particular detail was not a move Rothchild approved of as he felt that things were already tense enough. Out in the Capital Wasteland, people grew far too comfortable with the noise and effect of firearms, but down there in the vault? The 'vaulties' as they had been nicknamed were liable to panic and do something rash. It would undoubtedly start a fight.

Miscommunication. That was the problem. Too many people did not understand exactly what was going on, including Rothchild himself. He had only even begun to hear rumors of murder _after_ the mob had begun to form.

He turned to Glade, the Paladin still standing at ease, just beside the desk. Good god, the man was straight as an arrow and reliable as clockwork. Rothchild was forced to wonder why he had never given the knight more thought or attention during all those years at the Citadel.

"What do we know?" The Elder asked.

"An hour ago a couple of Megaton residents found three dead vaulties, and one of ours in the lower levels." Glade reported obediently.

Rothchild nodded, a terrible suspicion taking root. "One of ours?"

"Sarah, sir."

The Elder sighed. "Where is she now?"

"In their jail cell. The other woman got moved out."

"That cell can't fit two?"

"Apparently Sarah insisted on being alone."

"Of course." Reginald shut his eyes, silently apologizing to Owyn Lyons, as he had done a thousand times since returning from Point Lookout. Lyons had been his closest friend. The two of them had survived so much together. Rothchild remembered the day Sarah was born. The first time he had held Owyn's daughter in his arms. And under his care, she had been abused, humiliated, and eventually destroyed by Point Lookout. It had been Owyn's orders, and the mission one of utter necessity, but that did not help the guilt.

"You visit her." He ordered. "Find out what happened, and see if you can help her, Glade. I'm going to see if I can get this mob sorted out."

"Already planned to, sir." As the Star-Paladin departed, Rothchild reflected on just how invaluable the man had become. Glade had to be pushing fifty now. He had been a member of the Lyons pride since the start. Before that, he and Sarah had gotten along so well he had acted as her escort and teacher, just as she had been for the young squire Maxson.

The boy hadn't made it out with the Brotherhood survivors… he must have been very frightened and alone when he died. Squire or not, children deserved better.

How the Brotherhood had fallen. A quarter of a century ago, when they had arrived in the Capital Wasteland, they had been a mighty powerhouse. A mutant-killing juggernaut of an organization, capable not only of protecting but of planning, building, and insuring a future for everyone.

Then they'd lost a third of their troops and all their best tech to the Outcast traitors, and Owyn Lyons had started to grow a few grey hairs. After that, Project Purity- the wasteland's greatest hope, and what should have been the Brotherhood's crowning achievement- had faltered, stumbled, and come grinding to a crumbling halt. James Howlett had vanished with his infant son, leaving the Brotherhood to trickle bullets, caps, and blood into their eternal war with the mutants.

It was a wonder they had held the Citadel as long as they had. If it weren't for the Wanderer, they would have lost it to the Enclave eventually. But even he, even Jason Howlett hadn't been able to hold back the tide. And now the Brotherhood numbered in the dozens. They were trapped in an underground bunker, barely able to keep what small peace they could find.

These days it seemed all he could do was reminisce.

Rothchild stepped out onto the balcony to a wave of jeers and angry hollering. He raised his hands, trying to calm the seething crowd below. All around him, the Brotherhood remnants tensed, hands on their weapons. He felt the hostile eyes of the Vault dwellers focusing all of their scorn and frustration on him.

"Please, stay calm. A tragedy has occurred. I understand you're angry, and you want answers, but-"

"I don't want answers!" a man in a red baseball cap fought his way to the front of the crowd. Rothchild recognized the man as Allen Mack. "I want my son's murderer!" _Oh god…_ Mack was clutching a baseball bat, and he looked ready to use it.

Come to think of it, the crowd was full of objects, both blunt and sharp. No guns visible, though anyone who had tangled with Raiders could speak of the horrors inflicted by bats, tire irons and switchblades. Rothchild's worry could do nothing but grow.

"She is being held up here in a jail cell until we figure out exactly what happened. All I-"

"I already know what happened!" the vault dweller snarled. "My son is dead! I am so fucking tired of you wasters fucking us around!" The atrium filled with the mob's roaring approval.

"I understand. I just need a little more time. Please just wait a little longer!"

"I say we've had enough waiting! I say we march to the security office and grab the bitch ourselves!" the vaultie turned to the crowd, ignoring Rothchild's pleas for patience.

"Justice!" he shouted, hefting his baseball bat. The vaulties responded in kind, waving their own weapons. "We want justice!"

The mob's volume began to increase with its ferocity. Rothchild tried once again to calm the situation, and a few listened, until an unknown face in the crowd threw a beer bottle at him. Then all hell broke loose.

* * *

><p>The cell's lights had been muted, apparently at Sarah's request. Glade entered carefully, scanning the shadows for her. Sarah was hunched on a cot in the corner, a mere shape in the shadows. He could see her eyes glinting in the darkness, but couldn't make out much more than that. The room was utterly silent, even devoid of human breath.<p>

"Hello Sarah." The blanket of silence swallowed his words, making them vanish like a breath in a cold wind.

The cot creaked in the darkness.

Glade glanced around playfully, trying to lighten the mood. "Would you like me to light a candle?" The glinting eyes vanished, and he heard the back of her head thump softly against the wall. He sighed. "Sarah, two people are dead. You were found at the scene, literally red-handed.

"Yes." The word was a whisper, missed but for the absolute crypt-like stillness.

Glade nodded. He had suspected as much, to his dismay, but now it was at least confirmed.

"I have the knife here with me." He said, holding up the bundled cloth.

"Best take it somewhere else." That at least sounded a little like her. The voice was thin, drawn out and frail with recent tears.

"Where did you get it, Sarah?"

"It was in my hand."

"Did you bring it with you?"

"No."

"Did one of the vaulties have it?"

"No."

"Did you find it down on the lower levels?"

"No."

"Well how did it get in your hand?"

"It just…was. When I needed it."

"Is it…" Glade swallowed. The only thing he feared more than his question was the answer. "Is it from Point Lookout?"

The darkness scoffed. "You already know."

"What's so special about it, Sarah?"

"It opened Colvin." At her words, Glade felt sudden moisture against his palm. Something was soaking through the fabric.

"And Gallows." The darkness added. "Who knows how many more over the centuries… Men, women, children. I doubt Point Lookout cared much for who. Just how many."

There was more than moisture now, wetting his palm. Droplets were seeping through the cloth, thick and warm. He could feel thin streams of the liquid running down his fingers, pooling at his joints and tracing the rough lines of his knuckles. He didn't dare look down, but he knew the cloth was sodden.

The darkness spoke again. "That's the knife that killed me."

_Drip_

Gallows winced as the first droplet hit the prison's concrete floor.

_Drip_

"You want to know what the really frightening part is, Glade?"

_Drip_

"I feel sane right now."

_Drip_

_Drip_

"I feel normal."

_Drip_

_Drip_

"I can think clearly. The voices are gone."

_Drip_

_Drip_

"I think I need to kill to stay sane. I think that's what it wants."

_Drip_

_Drip_

_Drip_

"It's a craving I can feel sometimes. But it isn't mine."

At this pronouncement, Glade began to slowly and carefully step backwards.

_Drip_

_Drip_

_Drip_

"I kill when it wants me to, or it takes me. I understand now."

_Drip_

_Drip_

_Drip_

"It needs violence, and death, and war. Especially war. War never changes."

_Drip_

_Drip_

_Drip_

_Drip_

The intervals between each impact began to speed up to a steady patter. At that same moment, the cot creaked, and he had a vague sense of the shape in the darkness rising to its feet. Glade sped up, backing into the light.

He slammed his hand into the door controls, and as the shadow-filled portal slid shut he saw her face, a foot away from the entrance and moving closer. No footsteps had heralded her journey from the cot to him. Sarah's gaunt face merely drifted towards him. Her cheeks were sallow and skeletal, her pallor pale with an odd blue tinge. But her eyes… she was watching him quite clearly. Her gaze was steady, dispossessed of the fog which had taken her since Point Lookout. There was resignation in her expression, but also something lifeless. Lifeless, yet angry. As he backed away from the closed door, he knew that haunted face would plague his nightmares, though at that moment, he had a much more real terror to confront.

The cloth was soaked through, and the liquid poured out in a steady stream. He could feel it soaking through his recon boots, but he didn't dare look. He could merely stand there in the middle of the security room, stock still and staring at the door as the fluid puddled on the tiles at his feet. To either side were the cell's darkened windows, and he was dreading her ghostly shape appearing in one of them, staring at him.

His grip began to loosen, and the strands of fiber slipped from his fingers. The dagger, in its soaked wrap, landed on the tiled floor with a dull splat. Droplets of the unknown ichor splashed across Glade's pant leg, but he kept his gaze averted, fearing what he'd see.

A tapping at the window. Sarah was there, her face gaunt and shadowy. She met his eyes, and her gaze was as cold and alien as he had feared. The woman carefully raised one hand and pointed over his shoulder.

"Hey, Waster!"

Glade turned and found himself face to face with a dozen vault dwellers, looking blood-stained and rabid. The man in the lead had a goatee and a red baseball cap. As more of the world beyond Sarah's madness coalesced, Glade realized that he could hear gunshots, and alarmed shouts echoing through the halls. He drew his pistol and trained it on the leading vaultie.

"What the hell's going on?"

"Get outta the way, Waster, I'm here for the girl!" the man was aggressive, but refrained from stepping any closer. He was eyeing Glade's pistol with an apprehensive look, fully aware that for all his fury, he was at a terrible disadvantage.

"Go to hell!" Glade replied, his finger tightening on the trigger.

Another man jostled his way to the front. He was an older vaultie, with an authoritarian air softened by desperation. "Please! Stop this! Stop this at once!"

Glade kept his pistol aimed at the more volatile of his enemies, but he gave the newcomer as much of his attention as could be allowed under the circumstances. "Name. Title. Purpose." The Star-Paladin barked.

"Alphonse Almodovar. Former Overseer." The man replied obediently. "My people have been driven to riot. I fear there's going to be more bloodshed."

"We aren't _your _people, Alphonse!" the man with the baseball cap snarled, "Your entire fucking family has done nothing but lead this vault from bad to worse."

The man named Alphonse ignored his comrade and instead spoke to Glade. "My people are rioting, but yours have better weapons, and far more experience. I can call it off, but I need something to placate them."

"Maybe I should just wait until all of yours die out." Glade replied coldly. As if to accentuate his point, somewhere in the vault, there was another gunshot and a scream to accompany it.

"Let's just rush him! He can't kill us all!"

"Quiet, Allen." Alphonse cautioned.

"We don't deserve to die being hunted like rats in our own home."

"Sounds like you're finding out what it took my people just to get this far." Glade said.

"And how many of yours are left?"

For the first time, a crack formed in Glade's stalwart defense. He had raised Sarah since she was a little girl. He had seen her grow and train and mature and rise through the ranks to become the Brotherhood's pride. Their best warrior, and his own commander.

But the woman who had come back from Point Lookout wasn't her. Not completely. She had never quite felt like the same person, like that same little girl he had come to love and respect. He thought of the damage the Mutants had done to the Brotherhood. He thought of Kodiak and of his brothers and sisters, all sharing the same tomb. And Rothchild could well have be the last Elder in the east coast. Where did Glade's responsibilities lie? With Sarah, or with the Brotherhood? It was his job to protect all of them, to make sure that the Vaulties and the Wasters could coexist down here. If sacrificing Sarah could stop the violence…

Sensing his opponent's wavering resolve, Alphonse raised a calming hand. His gaze was oscillating between Glade's face and the prison window. No doubt Sarah was standing there, watching the proceedings with that disquieting impassivity. "I understand you want justice, and you want to protect your own, but this has gone past the point of a trial. I can stop this, but I need a scapegoat. There are only a few hundred of my people left in here. And less than that of yours. How many more can either of us afford to lose, especially if things are as bad as that outside? Let us take her, and I'll put a stop to this, I swear it."

"And what are you going to do with her once you have her?" Glade asked, telling himself he was merely trying to gain the full picture.

"That is up to the mob. I know this is ugly, but sometimes as a leader, ugly choices have to be made."

An old memory seared itself across Glade's inner eye; a young blonde-haired girl. She was four years old, and barely strong enough to aim a rifle. Beyond her, the city of Pittsburgh was burning, she was staring up at him with that utter confidence young children have. _I'm going to be a knight one day!_

Glade glanced backwards at the figure in the prison window, taking in her gaunt, sallow features and dead eyes. He felt shame fill him for considering, even for a moment, handing her over. That little girl he had met in Pittsburgh was still in there somewhere, no matter what had happened at Point Lookout. Elder Owyn Lyons had assigned him to be her mentor and protector, and he would not falter from his duty. He owed the Lyons family too much. He turned back to Alphonse Almodovar and said, "You're right."

There were fourteen vault dwellers before him. His first shot hit Allen Mack between the eyes. The bastard fell backwards into the arms of his surprised comrades. Glade's second shot grazed the temple of the man behind Mack. The man dropped to the floor. Perhaps he was dead. Perhaps he was unconscious. Either way, he was out of the fight. Glade fired a third shot, catching a woman in the belly. Her cry of rage was cut short as she stumbled and fell. Glade's fourth shot caught Alphonse Almodovar in the arm, spinning him into a row of lockers.

Glade kept pulling his pistol's trigger, throwing the inexperienced mob into disarray as they tried desperately to avoid the gunfire. The moment his clip ran out, he swiped a lead pipe from a dead vault dweller and rushed into the fray, swinging his weapon to and fro, aiming for elbows and knees and heads as he fought to keep Sarah safe.

On the floor behind him, the cloth he had dropped, stained with unknowable ichor, lay empty.

* * *

><p>The tunnel outside of Vault 101 erupted in a sudden flurry of noise and activity. Red lights flashed, and klaxons blared, signaling that at long last the vault door was opening. There was a cheer from the waiting soldiers, both Enclave and Talon Company.<p>

"Form up!" Summers ordered. Her enclave squad immediately gathered in front of the door, forming a power-armoured wall, five men abreast and two men deep. Behind them, armed with batons and combat shotguns, stood twenty-four Talon Veterans.

Jackrum was among them, allowing himself a moment of wonder as the giant cog-shaped door slid backwards with a terrible grinding noise that left his ears ringing. Cool blue light flooded the tunnel as the door rolled aside, and the invading forces raised their weapons in preparation.

"Breach! Breach! Breach!" Summers yelled, and her soldiers charged forward with the Talon Company close behind them. The entrance consisted of a flight of stairs and a plateau with a control panel which had been shot to pieces. The smell of an electrical burn lingered about the raised portion of the room. Several dark patches on the porous concrete walls indicated locations where someone had tried to clean off a bloodstain.

Jackrum had to admit, the Enclave troops were quick, silent, and very efficient as they cleared the lower levels of the vault. Several prisoners were taken, a few dressed in wasteland rags, others in the clean blue vault uniforms. They were armed with pipes and kitchen knives. The Vault appeared to be caught in a little battle of its own and the wastelanders and the vault dwellers were taken prisoner sometimes in mid-struggle. Each prisoner was hauled out -protesting madly- by a few of the Talon Mercs and handed over turner's forces outside the Vault.

He followed the Enclave forces as they swept through the maintenance area and down a short flight of stairs to a door marked 'Atrium/Upper Levels'. There was a pounding on the other side of the metal barrier. Jackrum watched as the two leading hellfire soldiers opened the door. A vault-dweller's corpse spilled out into the hallway, blood seeping from a grievous head wound. The victim's surprised attacker, a dark-skinned wastelander in recon armour, barely had time to register the Enclave forces before his was slammed into the nearest wall, a hellfire commando's gloved hand over his mouth. The prisoner was carted off noiselessly, and the Enclave forces continued up another set of stairs into a large atrium.

A crowd of vault dwellers had gathered there, bloodied and exhausted, but victorious. As Jackrum stepped into the room, he observed a woman's corpse, strung up a few feet above the heads of the crowd. It was gently swinging to and fro.

Catching sight of the enclave invaders, several bat-wielding vaulties yelled wildly and charged towards their enemy, only to be tossed several meters across the atrium by Hellfire commandos. The sight of their flying comrades gave the rest of the vault dwellers pause. The enclave forces spread out into the room, weapons trained on the crowd. Behind them, Jackrum and the Talon Company mercs followed, showing a little more hesitancy.

The atmosphere grew tense and silent as the two opposing forces sized one another up. A gap had opened up, several meters wide between the Vaulties and the Enclave forces. The vault dwellers were woefully outmatched, and seemed thankfully aware of that fact. The atmosphere was tense and uncertain, and Jackrum took advantage of it, pushing his way to the forefront. He examined the crowd of blue-coats, struck into stunned silence by the sudden appearance of heavily armed and armoured infantry in their vault.

The corpse hanging above their heads was a young woman with blonde hair and a set of worn recon armour. Former Brotherhood, if Jackrum had to guess. He wasn't sure exactly what she had done to deserve being lynched, but to say he was unimpressed with the vault dweller's conduct would certainly be an understatement.

"What the hell is this?" he asked, gesturing at the hanging body. His voice was swept away by the silence, falling somewhere into the void between the two sides. He grabbed the nearest soldier, who happened to be Enclave, and said "Cut her down."

The man gave him a look of arrogant disbelief. "I don't take orders from primitives."

"Primitives…" Jackrum murmured to himself. He could hear the Talon Mercenaries behind him muttering in anger. Jackrum said, "Name and rank, kid?"

"Private Malone. B-Company of the Seventh Enclave Infantry."

"How old are you corporal?"

"Twenty-six."

"Really?" Jackrum leaned in, unintimidated by the Private's bulky Hellfire power-armour. "By the time I was your age, I was a corporal pushing Sergeant. I bet you wouldn't dare face down a Supermutant without that fancy armour of yours, like me and my boys have done every day."

A couple of the Talon Mercs grinned, and Jackrum was pleased to see the Enclave soldiers shifting uncomfortably; he had hit a nerve. _Good! _He continued, "I earned my rank by going through shit you haven't. So either you follow your damned orders, or you take that armour off and we'll discuss this outside where I'll knock your sophisticated teeth out with my primitive fist!"

A few of the Talon mercs jeered.

His ears clearly burning beneath his helmet, Malone turned to Summers. The Lieutenant had remained silent until that point, merely watching the scene unfold with a bemused expression on her face.

"Ma'am?" the private asked.

"Commander Jackrum is actively in charge of this operation." Summers said fairly. "We are here to assist him and see that his objectives are successfully completed. Obey him." She was looking around the vault with a smug and satisfied smile on her face. Jackrum knew why: the Enclave had finally gotten into Vault 101. It was not a happy thought.

Malone turned back to Jackrum, who gestured at the hanging corpse. "Hop to it, kiddo. We don't have all night."

The Private obeyed, finally, and grabbed a companion to help give him a boost so he could reach the noose. A Ripper was produced and handed to them as they breached the Enclave firing line and crossed the deadzone between the intruding army and the men in blue. Jackrum followed the enclave soldiers, watching the crowd part before them. Though several of the vault dwellers were gripping pipes and bats, no one was willing to incur the wrath of the invaders.

The corpse was cut loose and carefully lowered to the ground. Jackrum crouched beside her to examine the body. The young woman was not breathing, and he could find no pulse. The skin about her neck had been burned and torn by the rope. Blood had dried on the coiled length and the fabric of her collar, stiffening both. She was a blonde-haired woman, possessing a gaunt face which held hints of former beauty. The color and vitality had drained from its features. Her lips were cracked and her hair frazzled. Her blonde eyes were only half open, staring into space.

Jackrum carefully rose to his feet, feeling his knees let out a mild protest. Behind him the corpse was being dragged away, but he strode even further into the silent crowd. They formed a loose circle around him, no matter where he moved, a few meters of free space remained between him and the onlookers. All of them sensed his rising anger, and none wanted to be singled out as a target.

"Who's in charge here?" he asked the room at large.

"I am." An older man stepped forward. He had narrow, beady eyes and a crafty countenance which set Jackrum's teeth on edge. The self-appointed leader also had a bandaged arm, soaked with blood. The man held out a hand. "Alphonse Almodovar. Overseer of Vault 101."

"Uh huh." Jackrum ignored the man's extended palm and instead reached behind his breastplate. He pulled out his cigarette packet, beating it against his chest once or twice to loosen the contents. "Why'd you hang such a nice-looking young lady?"

"She murdered two innocent Vault Citizens."

"Sure." Jackrum produced a set of matches and carefully detached one. "Anyone else you were planning on hanging, Mister Overseer?"

Almodovar pointed to the back of the Atrium, where another prisoner was on his knees, bound and gagged. "That man shot me and killed two more people attempting to protect that woman from proper justice."

"Yeah. Cos' the phrase 'Lynch mob' just drips with Justice don't it." The mercenary asked sarcastically. He glanced back at the prisoner, and recognized him as Glade, a member of the Brotherhood of Steel. Jackrum had dealt with him on multiple negotiations, and had rather liked the man. He added, "Mind if I smoke?"

"Smoking isn't allowed in the Vault."

"That's a little unfair." Jackrum lit the match and applied the flame to the tip of his cigarette. "After all, it's not like someone can just step outside for a moment, right?"

"The smoke clogs our air."

"And all the well-mannered drivel you guys puke at each other doesn't?" Jackrum asked pleasantly, though he allowed a certain amount of menace to seep into his tone. "You know, I ain't seeing a whole lotta civilization out there right now. Gotta say I expected a little more inside'o here."

Almodovar's eyes flickered towards the enclave's firing line, bristling with energy weapons. He said, "I want to assure you that every proper procedure was taken to insure that we treated the suspect with-"

"Oh, shut up. It doesn't take a genius to see what happened. You got pissed off. You lynched her." The Commander marched over to Glade and ripped the gag off. The soldier stayed silent, instead directing a contemptuous glare at the Vault Dweller.

"What's your name and rank?" Jackrum asked.

"Star-Paladin Glade. Capital Wasteland Brotherhood of Steel." The kneeling man answered.

"I remember you." Jackrum told him. He cut the man's bonds loose and helped him to his feet. Glade winced and groaned his way up, revealing the beating the Vaulties had laid on him. Jackrum had to admit that it did not help their case at all. Glade rolled his shoulders, and then fixed the Vault Leader with a spiteful glare. The Paladin's body was tensed, his fists clenched tightly. He looked ready to murder.

"_You._" He hissed at the vaultie.

"Now hold on just a minute." Jackrum stepped between them, his hand on the man's chest, hoping to hold him back.

"Get out of my way." Glade ordered.

"Can't do that." Jackrum met his eyes. "I'm sorry."

"They killed Sarah!"

Breathing heavily, the man batted Jackrum's hand away. "It'll make me feel better!"

"The Wanderer locked all of you in here to protect you all." Jackrum said. "What good will killing them now do? It sure as shit won't bring her back, and we'll have less fighters on our side. Stand down, soldier."

"You don't have the right to all me that!"

"I'm in command of the only organized human resistance left in the wasteland. I can call you whatever I want, and if you continue this goddamned feud then I certainly reserve the right to call you stupid!"

"You don't get it."

"An' apparently you don't either." Jackrum turned back to the enclave firing line. "Get this guy outta here pl-"

Glade rushed past him, roaring towards the Overseer. Halfway to his terrified target, he was tackled by a pair of burly enclave soldiers in full power armour. The Paladin had extensive hand-to-hand training, but could only squirm impotently against the armoured soldiers who were dragging him bodily behind the enclave line and towards the entrance. The soldier kicked and struggled all the way, swearing and shouting obscenities at the Overseer and his Enclave captors.

Jackrum waited for the noise to die down, and then turned back to Alphonse.

"I would thank you for your discretion, but I'm afraid I've missed your name." the Overseer prompted politely.

"You don't need to know it." The old Mercenary responded coldly. "I just dragged a fighter outta here to save a coward. And I only did that so that when the dust settles there'll be somethin' left, but you're on thin ice, Mister Overseer. Now, we're gonna march right up to your office and tell everyone to stop fighting. You vaulties are dumb enough to continue, I can't help you." He paused and puffed on his cigarette, taking pleasure in the way the man's sour face twisted. Jackrum added, "Actually I could. I just won't."

* * *

><p><strong>I started this one off with a bang. Mostly because it's where the muse decided to go. Whatever; I'm just glad it's going anywhere again. I'd rather have this be a strange fic than a dead one. Keep in mind that Mutatis Mutandis takes place during the events of Fallout: New Vegas, probably just before the DLCs.<strong>

**Sorry if that opening scene felt like advertising. I was trying to psyche myself up for the sequels. I know, I know; gotta get through this first, but whatever helps, right?**

**I'm tired of writing the Capital Wasteland. At least, the way it is right now. I think I'll be okay once I get to the sequel, but I actually have to get there first.**

**I'm leaving for Australia on the third of next month. I got a good 20 hours on a plane with nothing to do but write.**


	34. Chapter 34

**To be perfectly honest, I don't think either Krow Blood or I know whether or not Sarah Lyons is alive or dead. We haven't come to a decision on that score. I know that makes us sound horribly unprepared, but the fact is that I kinda killed her because that's what the muse demanded, not because it's what we had originally planned. We all know she can come back. Krow and I can make that work, the question is should we? As always happens when we can't decide, I'm going to open it up to the floor. I'm asking you, guys. Should Sarah Lyons survive? Should she stay dead? Is this a fitting ending for her? If she lives, what do you think should happen? What do you want to happen? Give us a hand here and help us put this story together for you! **

**Also, I've been traveling up the west coast of Australia over the past month. I'm in Darwin at the moment. I've seen two power outlets and had no access to decent Wi-Fi until now. So this time my slow update is not due to my muse! **

* * *

><p>Mutatis Mutandis 34<p>

Glade was standing on the hillock above Vault 101. His fist slowly closed over the lone wanderer's red bandana, taken from Sarah's body. A few shallow graves had been dug. In the packed, sunbaked soil. Several members of the Brotherhood had died in the Vault uprising, including Sarah Lyons. She was buried there, alongside the wasteland dead, brotherhood and Wasters alike. Glade was thankful in a way, that she had been put to rest. His last conversation with her weighed heavily on his mind. His dread and curiosity over what had happened at Point Lookout was matched only by his fond memories of the woman she had been, and the overwhelming bitterness that came with his failure to help and protect her.

There had been no eulogies. No one had the heart. He stood at the foot of Sarah's grave. His mouth was clenched shut, and he was breathing heavily through his nose, glaring past her grave into the vault below it. He could just imagine all the Vaulties, scurrying back and forth in panic as the Enclave forces looted and pillaged all of their technology. The world beyond their unassailable vault door had been revealed, not to mention their perilous position therein.

Planting that grenade in the vault door mechanism had been the most satisfying thing he'd ever done. He had locked their door open. There was no hiding from the Wasteland now. No hope of simply locking themselves away, the vault dwellers' lives were on the line now, just like everyone else's. Though he still had enough investment in the wasteland left to fight and win, he hoped that if Commander Jackrum's army lost, the mutants would show the cowards no mercy.

Even if Jackrum won, Glade knew that Vault 101 would have a hard time in the wasteland. Though the residents of Megaton had killed nearly four vault dwellers for every waster they lost, the vaulties' betrayal would not be forgotten any time soon. It was very likely that any vault dweller who chose to wander the wastes would meet closed doors and, possibly, hostile gunfire.

A voice somewhere behind him called out orders to fall in, and he turned away from the grave. It felt good to be out of the vault. He had not realized how much he missed the feel of sunlight on the back of his neck, but his shoulders were weighed down by the situation.

It appeared that Jackrum had handed the wasteland over to the enclave. From the hillock Glade could see divisions of enclave troops marching through Springvale. Their hated black armour was glinting in the bright morning sun, stinging his eyes with the sharp light.

There were more troops than Enclave there, however. Talon Mercenaries in their own black combat armour were moving back and forth, their divisions a healthy mix of Merc and wastelander. Glade could not see all the troops Jackrum had gathered, as many divisions were hidden behind a cliff-face, but he estimated the visible troops to number at least three hundred. That was heartening, at least. Someone had survived and put together a solid, organized military resistance, and despite his distaste for Jackrum's choice in allies, he couldn't help but admire the mercenary's will and ingenuity.

He trudged east, down the hillock and around to join what was left of the rest of the Brotherhood. A single, ragged column situated on the outer edge of the wasteland forces. The residents of Megaton had already been organized into the Talon Company ranks, but the Brotherhood? They had been swept to the side. Put there because no one yet knew quite what to do with them. Rothchild was negotiating, apparently, but the thought was far less reassuring than it should have been. It was not helped by the fact that Glade didn't even really know what was being negotiated. His column numbered less than fifty, most of them barely Knights. Though they kept formation, their eyes were downcast, and he could see his own hopelessness reflected in their tired faces. Kodiak was there. The younger paladin gave him a supportive smile.

"Alright, eyes up!" he called out, taking position in front of them. A few of the knights drew slowly to attention. The rest didn't move at all. "Guys, I know this has been a tough road, but we're standing here with every other Waster. This merc Jackrum's put quite an army together as you can see. I know the Citadel's gone, I know that we've lost so many good friends and brothers, but the fact is that we can still rise! We can still hit those muties where-"

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING, PRIVATE!" A voice echoed off the vault's low cliffs. Glade turned. An enclave sergeant was marching furiously up the Springvale road, glaring at him.

"Excuse me." Glade replied coldly. He turned back to his division, all of whom were directing hate-filled looks at the newcomer. "We can still hit the muties where it-"

"WHY ARE YOU STANDING IN FRONT OF MY DIVISION? FALL IN RIGHT NOW!" the Enclave sergeant ordered.

Glade's mouth fell open. "What do you mean?"

"Do NOT give me lip, private, or I'll have you dragged in front of Lieutenant Summers!" the sergeant snarled, coming to a halt in front of Glade.

"I…"

"Shut your mouth and fall in!" the sergeant motioned at the division. "You're a member of the Enclave now. A soldier of the rightful Government of the United States of America –God Bless- and you will fall in!"

"…I see." Glade said skeptically, recovering from his initial shock. It had been a long time since he'd been yelled at like a raw recruit. The Sergeant was a short, red-faced man. Pudgy, despite the rigorous physical standards most Enclave personnel were forced to conform to. He had a bulbous nose and unpleasantly saggy wrinkles which, when combined with the sweat, gave anyone who stared at him too long the impression that his face was slowly melting.

"Who are you?" the Star-Paladin inquired evenly. He kept his temper for the sake of his fellow soldiers, all of whom were watching the exchange closely.

"Fall in and I might deign to introduce myself." The Sergeant replied without missing a beat. Glade had to admit, as a sergeant, the man was effective; exactly the type of soldier he himself would have chosen to run a set of new entries through their paces. Unfortunately for the man, Glade was not a new recruit, and not one to be intimidated, or shouted down.

"What is your name, Sergeant?" he asked again.

The pudgy trooper cocked his head to one side, subjecting Glade to exactly the same examination the Paladin had given him.

"I am Staff Sergeant Manny 'The Masher' McClane. Proud member of the enclave!" he raised his voice, addressing the division of Brotherhood soldiers. "And it is my job to break in new recruits! I've got to get you battle-ready."

"Stand down." Glade ordered.

"No, I don't think I will, Private." The man replied, laughing.

"I am a Star Paladin-"

"No such thing."

"-Of the Capital Wasteland Brotherhood of Steel-"

"Which don't exist no more, from what I heard." McClane leered at him. Glade glared back, his blood boiling. Over the Sergeant's shoulder, he could see the rows of Enclave troops. He had no doubt that the recent war was still as fresh on their minds as it was on his, and on the minds of his Brothers. Striking the impudent sergeant, as satisfying as it would be, would undoubtedly result in a firefight. One the Brotherhood remnants would lose.

"That's right. You're mine now, _Private_." The Sergeant said gleefully. "Now: Fall. In. Line."

Burning with humiliation, Glade gave him one last withering look, and stepped into formation beside Paladin Kodiak.

* * *

><p>"Do you really have to subject us to this indignity?" Rothchild sighed. "This is just juvenile."<p>

Across from him, Lieutenant Summers merely smiled.

"It is pretty low, Summers. Even for you." Jackrum added.

"Didn't ask"

"Don't care." The Merc said. "You're stealing their dignity for fuck's sake. It's not like they have much else left!"

"Thank you for that assessment." Rothchild murmured.

"It's just standard procedure." Summers explained in a tone of false assurance. "We want to be sure that the Brotherhood recruits are capable of acting as part of a larger Enclave unit. We want to know they can fight. Both in and out of Power Armour."

"I think it has to be clear that we can." Rothchild reasoned politely, "Otherwise you wouldn't have lost so many troops to us during the war."

Summers glowered.

"They lost the Citadel and everything. They shouldn't don't have to put up with this." Jackrum fought.

"_You _called _us_." Summers reminded him. "You wanted us to stay and fight. I can pack up all of my troops and be safe at home within two hours. Do you want that?"

Jackrum gritted his teeth. "No ma'am."

"Good. I just want to make it clear to them that _we're_ in charge now." Summers said, "I don't want to get halfway through the battle and find that the Brotherhood are letting my men die."

"I think at that point we're all going to be too busy fighting the enemy." Rothchild told her. "Please. If my men are going to die, let them die with their colors on. We would do the same for you."

"The Wanderer wouldn't."

"He's not one of us."

"He has a rank, or so I've heard."

"On paper only!" Rothchild exclaimed. "You are just looking for any excuse aren't you?"

"Like you wouldn't."

Jackrum rose to his feet. "We do not have time for this! Summers, I seriously doubt the Brotherhood and the Enclave will get along and we don't have time to make friends. The Brotherhood is with me. Alright?"

"Fine." She snapped, "But if they start gunning my men down-"

"We won't." Rothchild cut in.

"_If_ they do, it's on your head, Jackrum." Summers promised. "We'll help the muties finish the job."

"Alright."

"And no power-armour!" Summers added ruthlessly.

Rothchild balked, but Jackrum nodded his head. "Fine."

"Fine." Summers rose to her feet, her head brushing the roof of their small tent. "If that's all, I think I'm going to go organize the troops."

"Have a blast." Jackrum said.

"Break a leg" Rothchild added.

She glowered at both of them, and exited.

"And several other bones…" the Elder added quietly.

Jackrum was frowning at the map atop their wooden table. His arms were crossed, and his brow furrowed.

"I appreciate the efforts, Mister Jackrum," Rothchild said, "But you cannot let my men out on that field without Power Armour."

"Why not? All of mine are fighting that way." Jackrum replied grimly. "I'll see if we can't rustle up some sets of combat armour for you. Maybe some paint."

"Combat armour…" Rothchild shook his head in disbelief.

"Oh, smarten the fuck up." Jackrum snapped. "Fancy armour and guns didn't save the goddamned Citadel! I got Wasters in my units fighting for their homes wearing nothing but Brahmin skin shirts! It's them I'm worried about because when all the dust has settled it'll be them rebuilding. You guys are a sideshow now. But for this battle, everyone knows the Brotherhood Symbol. You guys ain't the Wanderer, but you're the next best thing."

"Is that what we've been reduced to, then?" Rothchild spat bitterly. "Just… propaganda? Figureheads?"

"Or Martyrs."

"You've got thirty-four of the best fighting men and women-"

"And more things to worry about than stroking your goddamned ego!" Jackrum interrupted. "You're off the throne. I get it. Tough shit. Plenty of settlements got wiped out completely and you're whining cause your fancy toys are gone. Your guys will fight with me, or you can march west and see how long it takes the Enclave to catch up with you. While you're with us I'll keep Summers' goons off your back but that's as far as it goes, right? The landscape's changed. Enclave's in charge now. You're going to have to deal."

"And what about you, Mister Jackrum?" Rothchild asked. "You brought them back, but you know how they treat the Wasteland. Exactly what are you going to be if we win?"

Jackrum bit his lip. "I guess I'll have to jump off that bridge when I come to it. I was kinda hoping the Wanderer would swoop in at the last second and kick their asses out.

"You don't think he'd be angry with you?"

"He already tried to kill me once for it."

"And you're still alive…" Rothchild was surprised.

"Don't read too far into that. I hid behind a table and someone else stepped up to save my sorry skin. Some huge guy in Power Armour. He's been popping in and out of the picture, doing us favors."

"I've seen him." Rothchild blurted out. "He saved us from the mutants."

"Interesting…" Jackrum rubbed his chin. "Fort Bannister would have ended up like the Citadel if he hadn't been there. I wonder what he wants with us."

"Does every good deed have a pricetag?"

Jackrum's gaze snapped up to the elder's face. "You're living on the same planet as me, right? This is the Capital Wasteland. Nothing is done without payment."

"Spoken like a true Mercenary."

Jackrum glared at him.

Rothchild settled back comfortably into his chair. He stared mournfully at the Wasteland map. "I know this has been a long time coming, but I never thought I'd see the day when our chapter truly died. I thought I would at least escape that."

Commander Jackrum blinked, clearly surprised by the Elder's hearfelt admission. "I know what you mean. For a while there I really thought things were looking up for the Wasteland. First the Wanderer, then the water."

"Where is the Wanderer now?"

"Probably dead. He took out Brutus' Behemoths with him though, so at least we've got a fighting chance."

"Do we?"

"I hope so." Jackrum said grimly. "Guess we'll find out tomorrow." He took a puff from his cigarette, and examined the elderly scribe opposite him. "I tell you what, I'm going to go sort out your troops. Even if we lose tomorrow, they'll die with their colors on."

"I appreciate that."

* * *

><p>Humiliation was an understatement for the treatment which Sergeant 'Masher' McClane had given them. Pushups were first on the list. Then they went for a quick jog through springvale. The watching enclave troops kept silent, but they all stopped to watch gleefully as the last of the Brotherhood were paraded around the campsite by an Enclave Sergeant.<p>

It was all for show, of course. McClane knew very well that the unit was as fit and combat ready as any of the Wasters, but he was determined to humiliate them in any petty way he could possibly contrive. He was in the midst of breaking down a laser rifle, intending them to recite part names, when he was interrupted. McClane had held the 'Lesson' in the center of Springvale. A crowd of chuckling Enclave personnel surrounded the red-face Brotherhood remnants.

"An' this, Recruits, is an energy cell." McClane exclaimed, holding up the small cylinder. "It's got a positive side, and a negative side. Remember which is which when you put in the weapon! Raise your hands if you've ever loaded a laser rifle before."

The Brotherhood kept their hands down, faces locked in a grim demonstration of self-control.

"Nobody?" the Sergeant ran his eyes across their strict formation. "Not a one'o ya? No wonder the mutants strolled right through the Citadel. Wouldn't have happened if it's been manned by proper soldiers."

Several fists in his division clenched.

"Hello!" The greeting was so cheerful that it threw the division into a state of confusion, offsetting the Brotherhood's slow-boiling anger. Glade recognized Commander Jackrum of the Talon Company. The aging mercenary was striding up to McClane with a fearless, confident air. He did not give the Enclave Sergeant a second glance as he addressed the Brotherhood directly. "I know I speak for most of the Wasteland when I say I'm glad you're going to be here fighting with us."

"This is my division, Waster." McClane interrupted coolly, "I suggest you go back to your unit."

He had barely finished speaking when Jackrum's knuckles impacted his cheek. Silence dropped. All around them, the Enclave soldiers tensed up, reaching for their weapons. Jackrum's blow had driven McClane back a step. The man was holding his jaw with a look of utter shock on his face. Someone in the Brotherhood division whooped.

"I am Talon Company Commander Jonathon Rumsfeld." Jackrum explained, shaking some life back into his fist. "Your commanding officer. I won't be lipped off by a sergeant, Power Armor or not. What you just received was the Five-Fingered court-martial for insubordination. I'll expect a salute next time we pass by."

McClane straightened carefully, giving Jackrum a looked of constrained venom.

"I'll go to Lieutenant Summers!"

"Go right ahead." Jackrum challenged with a cocky smirk. "You don't think what I've promised her is worth more than her sergeant getting a little bruise?"

"I…" McClane opened and closed his mouth several times. Then he scowled and mustered himself. "Typical Waster behavior. So uncivilized!"

"Yet effective. Tell me Sergeant, exactly what were you teaching them?" Jackrum gestured at the Brotherhood, most of whom were grinning.

"I was running them through exercises. The Enclave emphasizes physical fitness."

Jackrum ran an eye down the drill Sergeant's pudgy figure, taking in the way his pear-like shape was bulging through the power armor. "Really?"

McClane self-consciously sucked in his stomach. Behind him, a few of the Brotherhood soldiers were smirking.

"An observant Sergeant would add the word Sir to the end of his answers, by the way." The Commander added smoothly.

"I was also running them through basic arms training." McClane waved the laser rifle vaguely from side to side, his sails having lost all wind. He clenched his teeth. "Sir."

"Excellent idea, sergeant!" Jackrum responded enthusiastically, slipping the rifle out of the confounded sergeant's grasp. Jackrum made sure he had the Brotherhood's attention. He tapped the end of the rifle. "Point this end at the Muties. Pull this bit here to make them die. Anyone confused? No? Good." He turned back to McClane. "Was that so hard?"

"That training does not conform to the Enclave Military Standards."

"No? Well fortunately it's right in the Talon Company handbook." Jackrum faced the Brotherhood. "And that's what I've come to give you the chance to join. You are the Brotherhood of Steel. They may not respect that name-" his arm swept out, pointing at the Enclave soldiers watching from the sidelines. "-But _I_ do. For twenty-five years I've watched from the wrong side as you guys stood between the innocent people of the wasteland, and everything that's trying to tear it all down. I know you and the Talon Company haven't always gotten along either, but right now, the Talon Company isn't just me and my boys. It's everyone who's left. Under my command is every fighting man in the wasteland. Everyone from mercs to raiders to settlers to scavengers. We're all here right now trying to do our part. This is still our home and we're as willing to die defending it as you've always been. You'll be in combat armor, same as me. Same as every Talon Merc. Same as most of the Wasters. But I promise you you'll have your colors, your pride, and a Star-Paladin leading you into battle. I'm speaking for the Wasteland when I say I'd be honored if you'd agree to fight beside us one more time." He flipped the laser rifle end for end and held it out towards Glade, meeting the tired eyes of every man in the division. "How 'bout it?"

All semblance of a formal division appeared to have faded, as the few remaining members of the Brotherhood turned in unison to look at Glade. The man was fixed in position, though his lips were pursed and his brow was furrowed with thought. He was watching Jackrum, weighing the mercenary's words with care. After a few moments he stepped past his comrades and took the rifle. The moment his hands grasped the weapon, he snapped to attention, his drill precise. Glade turned to the fuming enclave sergeant and saluted.

"I relieve you of command, sergeant."

McClane glared at him. Glade maintained the salute, waiting on the proper reply. His face was blank, and utterly professional.

"Anything to say, Sarge?" Jackrum asked delicately.

"I stand relieved, sir." McClane grunted.

"Star-Paladin." Jackrum corrected. A few members of the Brotherhood snorted in satisfaction.

"Eyes front!" Glade barked at his division, "You're Brotherhood fighters representing Elder Owyn Lyons! Pack it up and make the Old Man proud!"

They snapped into formation with the same precision their leader displayed. McClane gave Jackrum a pleading look. The Talon Commander crossed his arms and stared straight back unyieldingly.

"Star…Paladin." The Enclave Sergeant grunted as if the words were being torn from him.

"Much better" Jackrum congratulated.

"You're dismissed, Sergeant." Glade said professionally. "Thank you for your time and attention."

McClane glowered, but crossed the open ground without argument, joining the equally furious ranks of enclave troops.

Glade turned back to his unit. "Brotherhood, Salute!" As one, the division faced Jackrum and snapped their arms up. The Veteran merc returned the gesture wholeheartedly. "Star Paladin Glade and the Brotherhood reporting for duty, sir." Glade said, a certain amount of satisfaction creeping into his voice.

"Get your unit over to the Elementary school and find Sergeant Turner." Jackrum instructed, "He'll get you some paint and get you kitted out.

Glade saluted again and barked the orders back to the Brotherhood of Steel, who marched away with their heads held high. The ranks of Enclave personnel to either side watched them with distain, but made no moves to stop them. Jackrum sauntered after the rapidly retreating column, giving members of the crowd cheerful nods as he passed.

* * *

><p>Lieutenant Samantha Summers had retired to her private Vertibird. A makeshift desk had been set up in the back of the aircraft, and she had a portable computer terminal plugged into the aircraft's nuclear power supply. She was typing her latest reports when the aircraft door opened and an Enclave sergeant stepped through. Summers recognized him. Manny McClane, one of the more zealous patriots, but a useful man.<p>

The sergeant marched up to her desk and saluted smartly. "Ma'am, a waster just stole the Brotherhood from us."

Summers looked up at him. "I know. I cleared it with him."

"I told him to report back to his unit, and he hit me. Told me it was a five-fingered court-martial." McClane pointed to a rather large bruise which was forming on his cheek.

She shrugged. "The Talon Company are a band of mercenary scumbags. I suspect the phrase 'Disciplinary professionalism" has too many syllables for them to comprehend. Let it go for now, Sergeant."

"Ma'am?"

"My orders are to cede to his authority." Summers explained patiently, "They come straight from the top. Jackrum is useful to us. He has proven that he can keep the Wasters organized and fighting for us. Until we have solidified our hold on the wasteland, we are to withhold any punitive measures."

McClane's mouth dropped open in astonishment. "Will all due respect, Ma'am, the mongrel struck me! In front of our men! We're going to let that go?"

"I am not defending him, Sergeant. We are using him. Have no fear, the moment the mutants are dealt with, the Lone Wanderer, Three-Dog, Commander Jackrum and his precious Brotherhood of Steel will all be put on a firing line and summarily executed for their crimes." She smiled and looked up at the sergeant. "Perhaps you'd like to volunteer to be on the firing squad?"

McClane smiled back. "Respectfully, I would, Ma'am."

"I should make up a roster." Summers said thoughtfully. "I suspect the spaces will fill up very quickly."

"Yes Ma'am. Thank you, Ma'am." McClane saluted dutifully, clearly eager to spread the word.

"Dismissed, sergeant."

The man left without another word.

Summers took a moment, staring at her monitor. She opened up her correspondence and re-read the message.

_Person of Interest: _

_The Mercenary known as Jonathon 'Jackrum' Rumsfeld._

_Target deemed useful to strategic takeover of Capital Wasteland. Deemed too risky to remain alive. Upon completion of mission, Target is to be arrested and executed on suspicion of treason, terrorism, sedition and conspiracy against the rightful government of the United States of America._

_-Enclave Strategic Command_

_Signed, Major Bartholomew Beverly_

Summers rubbed her chin, staring at the page. For all their arguments, the eccentric old mercenary had grown on her. To add to the turmoil, she knew that the Wastelanders were getting desperate, and she sympathized with them more than she knew she could let on. Summers knew where her loyalties lay. All the same, this was one order she was going to regret carrying out.

* * *

><p>It was late evening. Jackrum was standing on a hill overlooking the streets of Springvale. Arrayed in front of him were nearly a thousand fighting men and women. At the front were the Brotherhood of Steel, wearing white and blue combat armor, the Brotherhood logo displayed proudly on their breastplates. Their disciplined drill and passive faces radiated exactly the confident, reassuring strength he had hoped for. On either side of them were divisions of Wastelands, led by Talon Company mercenaries. The Wasteland forces stretched almost all the way back to Springvale School.<p>

Enclave forces were stationed around the perimeter of the assembly, some facing outwards, keeping watch on the Wasteland, and some facing inwards, keeping watch on the multitude of armed Wasters. He couldn't help but notice that vertibirds with mininukes hanging from their bellies buzzing overhead. With the push of a button, they could easily have obliterated enormous chunks of the wasteland forces.

"Those really necessary?" He asked, leaning towards Lieutenant Summers, who was standing just behind him.

"Just running the pilots through some basic drills and last-minute checks." She said.

"Uh-huh." He replied skeptically.

"Here." Summers handed him a microphone. "It's hooked into their speakers. They'll broadcast your speech so everyone can hear it."

Jackrum stared down at the device "Right…" he held it up and cleared his throat. The high-pitched whine of feedback escaped the speakers of the vertibirds, causing most people in the crowd to cover their ears.

"Sorry." Jackrum said, and was amazed to hear his voice echoing down the length of the assembled army. "Wow. Usually I have to shout." He grinned back at Summers. "I think I'm going to miss that."

She rolled her eyes.

"Alright… so I bet you're all expecting some amazing speech. Apparently I'm getting known for those."

The roar from the crowd was deafening. "All right, all right, shut up, the lot of you!" he rubbed the back of his neck. "Look, this has been a long, hard haul for all of us. We've lost a lot." His eyes lingered on the proud Brotherhood soldiers. "-and I expect that tomorrow won't be any easier. But we all know what's at stake if we lose." He paused for a second, and then said "Tomorrow's going to be a hard battle. It's going to be a bloody one. Anyone have second thoughts? Because now's your chance. I won't stop you. As a matter of fact," he raised his voice, now that he had found an angle. "I'll give you the caps. Just take them and go! Get the hell away from us! I don't want to die beside anyone who ain't willing to die beside me! I'm not going to cut and run, even if I'm the last man standing! I'm going to stay here and fight until this job is done and this Wasteland is mutie free!"

The crowd cheered.

"You know why? Jackrum roared, "It's because tomorrow is going to be one for the ages! And I'll be damned before I'm caught sitting on the sidelines! At the end of the day, when the job is done, those of us who fought and bled for this wasteland are going to go down as legends, boys! Every man will tell his son and they'll tell their sons of the day we nearly lost it all, and those few of us who were brave enough to fight and keep it!"

* * *

><p>The defiant roar of the Wastelanders carried high into the sky. It rose above the heat of the wasteland, above the circling Vertibirds to be caught by the wind and carried south to Project purity as a distant thunder. The mutant horde, three-thousand strong, paused in its task of fortifying the eastern banks. Mutants with enormous bulks of iron and timber, mutnats lugging blocks of concrete and sacks of meat paused in midstride and stared at the sky, for a moment frightened.<p>

The roar reverberated on the thin plating of Project purity. It echoed down through the criss-crossing rope bridges until it reached the concrete throne upon which the mutant king Brutus sat, chin on his palm. He was watching a solitary, beaten hairless figure which had been chained up and hung limp in a faint beam of blue light. A medical tray sat beside the figure, with a lone green syringe on it.

Brutus smiled as the figure stirred, brought back to consciousness by the deep echo. The mutant unfolded, rising to his feet. He walked carefully down the concrete steps until he stood in front of what little was left of the Lone Wanderer. He gripped the tiny figure's head and turned it from one side to the other, examining the red burns and the glowing green veins beneath. "Fascinating." Brutus commented quietly. What was done to you would have resulted in most Normals quite literally coming apart at the seams. Your regenerative capabilities are extremely impressive. Congratulations…"

* * *

><p><strong>Anyone remember the little In Medias Res teaser I posted at the very beginning of this story? Now we're all caught up. Jackrum's last words are actually based on Shakespeare's St Crispin's Day speech. My ego is not so large that I think I could outdo the Brad, but I think that speech is very inspiring and somewhat appropriate for the situation, so I kinda stole it's structure and central ideas.<strong>

**anywho my apologies for the delay. let me know what you think about the Sarah situation, and i'll get back to you with a new chapter as fast as Wifi Access allows.**

**Cheers to Krow Blood as well. Sorry for the long silence, buddy!**


	35. Chapter 35

**Mutatis Mutandis 35**

Dawn broke on the wasteland. The first hints of winter chill hung in the air. Light crawled through the crumbling streets of downtown D.C., revealing the hordes of green supermutants churning west towards the banks of the Potomac. Concrete blocks, each the size of cars were being carried and placed with great speed and efficiency. The streets and shores of the north and west were strung with crisscrossing fields of barbed wire. Enormous sharpened I-beams had been driven deep into the ground and pointed threateningly towards the Capital wasteland. Behind them were trenches and embankments. Concrete bunkers had been set up, with minigun turrets aimed to sweep the opposite banks. Row upon row of supermutant stood assembled in the morning light. The eastern shore of the Potomac was bristling with miniguns, missile launchers, and small arms of every sort.

Project purity had been ringed with defenses of every kind. Concrete walls, barbed wire, and plates of steel and iron surrounded it like a maze. Overlords and Masters toting pieces of Alien weaponry scavenged from the ruins of the Citadel patrolled inside and out in well-armed groups.

Faint echoes of gunfire could still be heard to the southeast as the few defenders left in Rivet City fought tooth and nail for every inch of every hallway in the bowels of the ancient wreck. Yet even their defenses were crumbling against the waves of mutants which were flooding over the gangplank and onto the flight deck. The heavy marching feet could be heard as far down as The Muddy Rudder, where the civilians were huddled in a large, frightened group.

Across the river, snipers positioned themselves. Fireteams checked their weapons in preparations for the inevitable assault. Fatman mortar teams dug in and zeroed their sights on enemy positions. Scouts darted back and forth between various listening posts on the frontlines. A vertibird soared over the river, and was promptly blown out of the sky by several missiles fired from the mutant positions.

In the forward operating base at Arlington Cemetery, a fist thumped a table.

"I told you so." Jackrum said as he watched Summers withdraw her hand.

She shot him a venomous glare. "I want more intelligence."

"Have you tried playing Scrabble? I've heard that can sharpen the mind."

"Jackrum!"

"Look, fly them higher, then. The bad guys might be dumb but they can still shoot."

Summers spun on a courier. "Send another scout at five hundred meters." She barked at her subordinate. "I want Arial photography. I want to see what we're dealing with!"

"Muties." Jackrum guessed.

"By god I swear I will shoot you where you stand, Jackrum."

"Look, we already have our plan." He said, leaning against the large wooden table. "I'm not sure it'll work anyway. This'll come down to fireteams versus muties. Street by street and door by door. Its lookin' to play out like the Liberty Prime run when the Brotherhood took the purifier from you guys. We bomb the ever-loving hell out of them. You guys take some of my crew around the bay and we'll secure Rivet City. Meanwhile we head north around the top of the river bank and roll up their line."

"We don't have the robot."

"We have the Enclave."

"We are not invincible."

Jackrum's hand swept down their map. "You'll have air support, and my mortar teams will be peppering the ground ahead of you."

She sighed and stared down at her map. "Alright. Alright. Make the final preparations. Mortar barrage starts in half an hour. Fifteen minutes after that, we attack."

Jackrum exited the tent. His various lieutenants shuffled to something approaching Attention. He said, "Get your teams ready, boys. We're on in forty-five minutes."

He knew the plan. He had gone over it with Summers again and again and again. The attack would occur in two prongs. Several Vertibirds would circle southeast around project purity to drop heavily armed troops on Rivet City's flight deck. Mortars and sniper teams would assist the task force in securing and relieving the beleaguered city. In the meantime, the bulk of the wasteland forces would cross the bridges and head south, destroying or taking control of all passages into the heart of D.C. as they went. That would contain the mutants and prevent any enemy forces from cutting them off as they drove south towards Project Purity.

Project Purity was the goal. The facility was both a literal and a symbolic fortress. As it always had, whatever faction controlled the fresh water, controlled the wasteland. Jackrum privately wondered how much the mutant army understood the statement they had made, but he also suspected that they didn't have to. It was for the Wastelanders. A campaign of demoralization. Taking it back probably wouldn't have the same effect on the mutant forces, but it would send the clear message to Brutus himself that far from demoralized, the Wasters were willing to fight to the last man for their homes and their futures.

In fact Jackrum was hoping that Brutus was somewhere inside the fortress. There couldn't be many intelligent mutants in the wasteland. Killing him and his close circle would cut the head off the snake. The mutants were at their most dangerous when unified under the leadership of an intelligent commander. If he was eliminated, the mutant army would likely disintegrate into a hundred uncoordinated little camps, making its destruction far easier.

It was with this aim in mind that he visited the Brotherhood of Steel. The final thirty-four fighting men and women. They had dressed in white combat armor, with their gear insignia painted in light blue on their pauldrons, and their name and rank in black on their chest plates. They had set up several dirty canvas tents on the northern end of the Waster camp, right in the enormous ring of stone and debris which used to be the Citadel. Most of them were gathered around a giant pile of white ashes, punctuated by the occasional suspiciously shaped chunks of black charcoal. The familiar stench of burned bodies hung thick in the area.

The Brotherhood soldiers moved through their former headquarters with grim expressions, their eyes glazed as they watched ghosts move around them. Every so often they would glare across the river at the distant green shapes. Jackrum spotted Paladin Glade and Elder Rothchild, Both sitting behind a piece of rubble near the river's edge. Kodiak was there as well, firing at the distant shapes with a liberated sniper rifle.

Jackrum came to a halt in front of them, his arms crossed. Glade nodded at him.

"Kinda a strange place to set up camp." Jackrum said.

"I gave the order." Rothchild said.

"S your kids could see what the muties did?"

"So they'll get mad." Glade explained quietly. Jackrum noted the red bandana which was wrapped around the man's forearm.

"Ah." Jackrum slipped his fingers under his breastplate and pulled out a nearly empty pack of cigarettes.

"What do you want, Jackrum?"

Jackrum searched his pockets. "Damn it- where are my matches? Ah-hah." He planted a cigarette between his lips and struck a light. "Got an assignment for you. Something special."

Glade nodded slowly and leaned back against the rubble pile. "I was wondering why you'd bothered."

"Eh?" Jackrum shook out the match.

"Why you'd bothered to rescue us."

"That was the Wanderer's plan, actually. I thought you guys all died here till he told me about the vault. But I need you now. Brutus, the mutie commander is somewhere on that battlefield and if I were a betting man, I'd say he was somewhere inside Project Purity."

"You want us to eliminate him?" Rothchild asked.

"Now I know why they call you the smart one."

The elder gave him a withering look.

Jackrum said, "Four years ago your best men led the charge across_ that_ exact bridge and down the east shoreline right into Project Purity."

"We had the Wanderer with us then." Glade said.

"Not to mention Liberty Prime."

"This time you have the Enclave and my snipers and mortar teams backing you up."

"It might not be enough." Rothchild warned.

"We can't let the Enclave take out Brutus." Jackrum said, "I'm trying to keep them from stomping all over us, but I have no goddamned cards in my hand, and Summers knows it. The Wasters need a win. We need to show ourselves, and the Enclave that _we _own this wasteland."

"We'll get it done." Glade said, with a surprising amount of confidence. Rothchild raised his eyebrows. The Paladin shrugged. "It's always been our job to pull off this kind of stunt. That's what the Lyons' Pride was created for; the special missions. We'll get it done."

"All two of us." Said Kodiak, who had remained silent up until that point.

"We're leading the others, Greg." Glade said with a touch of reproval. "Right now the Brotherhood is to the Wasteland what the Pride was to the Brotherhood. We'll do our jobs." He turned back to Jackrum. What do you know about Brutus?"

* * *

><p>The Waster forces were split into teams of fifteen men apiece, each division a mix between Waster, Merc, and Enclave personnel. Each team was led by a Mercenary with a Chinese assault rifle. They were usually back up by an array of wasters and mercs carrying shotguns and assault rifles. Each team had a medic, and three enclave soldiers; a Hellfire trooper with a heavy incinerator, an enclave officer used for spotting and calling in air strikes, and a regular enclave soldier to protect him. On top of that, the wasteland forces had demolition teams, armed with shotguns. It was their job to close off selected underground routes into the downtown core to prevent the mutants from easily counter-attacking.<p>

Wasteland forces had been harrying the Muties all night long, but the battle began in earnest with a mighty missile barrage. The Arlington Memorial Bridge was the chosen invasion point. Snipers kept the mutants busy on the opposite bank while the various waster teams assembled and prepared to rush across into downtown D.C.

Sixty rockets fired from ten missile launchers hit the buildings on the opposite side of the bridge, causing the collapse of one weather-beaten office tower. The other was peppered with enormous gaping holes. The smoke and dust hid the invading forces from the defending supermutants, but they responded in kind. Missiles sailed back across the river, flying high above the heads of the wastelanders to hit the buildings behind them. The Bridge itself was suddenly lit up with minigun rounds as a group of Supermutant Masters rallied mutie forces into something approaching a defensive line.

A wall of lead volleyed across the bridge like a deadly horizontal rain shower, forcing the Brotherhood soldiers leading the charge to dive for any cover they could find. Glade and Kodiak took shelter behind a concrete divider, and half the brotherhood followed them, crawling on their stomachs to stay under the enemy fire. A young nameless Enclave officer accompanying them crawled up to Glade and tapped him on the shoulder, leaning into his ear.

"I need a visual!"

"What for?" He yelled back. "We know where they are!"

To his astonishment, the young man slipped a map out of his pocket and opened it up, revealing the downtown core and the wasteland surrounding it. He leaned over to Glade, ignoring the bullets whizzing by them, and tapped the map, saying: "We're in Zone Nine! I need to call in an airstrike!"

Glade stared as the man consulted his map once again. He turned to Kodiak, who shrugged helplessly, and fired a few blind rounds over the top of the divider. A series of missiles zipped past, once of them just a foot above their barricade, close enough for Glade to feel the heat from the jet.

"We can't stay here forever, sir!"

Glade grabbed the map and rammed a finger down at the other end of the bridge. "Right there! Call it in!"

"There are safety concerns-" the officer began. The corner of their disintegrating barricade crumbled, and a few bullets pounded into an exposed Brotherhood soldier. The man dropped to the ground, and someone shouted for a medic. Glade grabbed his pistol and pressed it into the watery-eyed officer's temple.

"Call. It. In." He growled. The man thumbed his microphone and began calling coordinates. A few seconds later an Enclave vertibird buzzed by, firing six rockets into the mutie defenses. More dust rolled across the mutant position, and another office building crumbled, scattering enormous concrete slabs across the road, and into the river. The gunships circled, raking the dust cloud with indiscriminate minigun fire in order to suppress the mutants.

"Move!" Glade rolled over the barricade, followed by Kodiak and the Brotherhood division. The wasters followed, sixty in total. They pounded the gray, cracking pavement, the frontlines pausing every so often to add to the vertibirds' suppressive bursts. A few shots skipped by, but the mutant line was in shambles, and Glade crossed easily into the cloud. His vision was immediately reduced to just a few feet ahead. The crumbled building had thrown plenty of concrete barriers across the roadway, and he found himself engaged in close-quarters combat with the surviving mutants. An enormous orange shape leapt out from behind a pile of rubble and rushed at him, brandishing a sledgehammer. Three Brotherhood soldiers around him opened fire, bringing the mutant down before it could close the distance. The Brotherhood moved further, sweeping through the ruins. Glade could hear gunfire and mutant roars all around him. Muzzle flashes flickered in the dusty grey air. They could still hear the gunships buzzing around far above their heads, but at least the enclave forces had stopped firing.

The road turned south, and Glade found himself at the top of an enormous ramp. He remembered the last time he had stood there with Vertibirds in the skies above. Liberty Prime had been just a few meters to his left, and he had the entire brotherhood of steel backing him up. The Lone Wanderer, with his brown longcoat and red bandana had been walking ahead of Liberty Prime, his sniper rifle cracking shot after shot after shot, eliminating every Enclave soldier dumb enough to poke his head out of cover. Between the Wanderer and Liberty Prime, the last Project Purity run had been a cake walk. A matter of cleaning up the remains, sweeping the path behind them. This time was different. The risks were higher, and he knew that even if they won, there was no way the enclave would let the wasteland go a second time.

Glade glanced down at the bandana around his arm, and wondered where the Wanderer was. He wished the young man was with them now; it would have added so much to the charge. More than that, he wished Sarah was there leading them.

Snipers lined up all around him, firing at the dozens of mutants who had set up barricades along the road.

"Up high!" someone shouted, and then a rocket exploded just a few meters behind Glade, killing several Brotherhood soldiers, and a few wastelanders. The blast knocked him onto the pavement, and he looked up to see several mutant masters with rocket launchers on a catwalk far above their heads.

"Take cover!" he ordered, watching the mutants reload. Moments later a vertibird flew by, firing several missiles into the structure, which collapsed onto the roadway below.

"Keep moving!" Kodiak called out. Wasters and mercs filed past, flooding down the shallow ramp, and onto the street below. Among them were the bulky, Black jangling shapes of Enclave Hellfire mercenaries. Snipers at the railing exchanged shots with mutants hidden in the surrounding office buildings. Wasteland forces snaked out, fireteams covering one another as they entered the offices through windows and doorways, clearing each building floor by floor. Muzzle flashes lit up darkened windows, and gunfire echoed through the street.

"Sir, we got trouble!" A hand pulled at Glade's shoulder, and he followed a young mercenary back out towards the bridge. Wasters were still moving across, a few fireteams at a time. Their progress was slowed by minigun fire from the opposite bank. Supermutants had collected in the blindspots, places where the Wasteland snipers across the bank couldn't pick them off. The bridge was too exposed for any team to bunker down and offer consistent resistance.

Glade pulled the mercenary close. "Get me one of those Enclave Officers. We need another airstrike!"

Then they heard it, the furious roar of a Behemoth. Silence fell as everyone paused, looking for the creature. Glade's heart dropped. He had thought the Wanderer had gotten them all. How many could be left? If there were anywhere near the number which had attacked the Citadel, they were screwed.

The monstrosity burst through the wall of a nearby office building. The giant's skin was red and burned, horribly disfigured. It wore a vest, and with a cold shock, Glade realized that it was wired with explosives. Two missiles, taken from one of the fighter jets atop Rivet City, were strappd to its back.

The moment the behemoth appeared, the entire east bank lit up. Thousands of Minigun rounds peppered the Waster-held shoreline. Among the Supermutant barrage, Glade could see the strange energy projectiles of the alien weaponry the Wanderer had given the Brotherhood of Steel. Those dangerous green balls of energy bounced across the water. One of them slammed into a Talon Company tent and detonated, leaving a red-hot crater, and killing close to a dozen men. The Wastelander army scattered and dove for cover to avoid the led wall which zipped and zinged above their heads.

The Behemoth charged down the center of the river itself, bulling its way through what was, to it, a waist-deep current, and Glade realized what its purpose was. He began to push his way through the crowd of wasteland soldiers.

"Get the men off the bridge!" he shouted, waving to the incoming Waster forces as the behemoth disappeared under their feet. "Get off the bridge! Get off the-"

The monster disappeared under the bridge. There was an almighty explosion as the missiles detonated. The ground shook, and the air around him seemed to squeeze, and press in on him. In the confined space between the bridge's arching supports, the Supermutant Behemoth was turned to paste. The pressure pushed upwards, and threw the central span of the bridge high into the air, along with all the men and supplies crossing it. Pellets of stone the size of a man's head flew outwards, splashing down into the Potomac and peppering Jackrum's army, killing and wounding several wastelanders. Weapons and bodies splattered into the brown, churning river, and Glade was left standing at the edge of the ruined bridge, cut off from the bulk of the Wasteland forces.

* * *

><p>From their camp across the Potomac, Jackrum and Summers stared in shock at the devastation. The barrage of suppressing minigun fire had ceased as most of the mutants turned their attention inwards, towards the two-hundred or so Wasteland fighters trapped on the east side of the Potomac. Wasteland snipers were still exchanging fire with a few mutant riflemen, but the river had for the most part gone quiet. Everyone in the camp could hear the staccato of assault rifle rounds, and the panicked shouting of the trapped wasteland forces.<p>

"I thought you said the Wanderer had gotten all the Behemoths!" Summers snapped furiously.

"I thought he had too!" Jackrum shot back. "Look, don't panic. For all we know, that was the last."

"For all you know? What the hell do you know, Jackrum?"

"I don't have time to argue about this! A quarter of our army is trapped over there!" He turned away. "I need a runner!"

A courier materialized, and Jackrum grabbed the man's Brahmin skin shirt and leaned in close. "Tell the sniper teams and mortarmen to keep up the pressure, and get me my division commanders. I want my forces packed and ready to move in two minutes!"

"Where are you going?" Summers asked as the courier ran off to relay the messages.

Jackrum pulled out his Chinese assault rifle and checked it. He said, "Brutus wants to divide and conquer. I'm going to put my army back together."

* * *

><p>The wastelanders were panicking. The blown bridge had cut them off from reinforcements and supplies. They were two hundred men strong; a quarter of all the Wasteland forces. Yet most of them were just Wastelanders: untrained and undisciplined. While they believed in fighting for their homes as much as any Brotherhood warrior, most of them lacked the iron nerves which had been drilled into Elder Lyons' soldiers.<p>

Glade knew that if he didn't act quickly, their defenses would disintegrate, and they would be overrun by the mutant hordes pushing towards them from Rivet City. He held up a hand. "Brotherhood, rally to me!"

The division obeyed. Brotherhood warriors, in their white and blue combat armour gathered quickly. Glade's heart wrenched as he realized they were down three men already. Kodiak was still alive, blood seeping from a scrape on his scalp. Glade ordered six of them north, under the direction of a more experienced knight. He wanted to keep a decent rearguard in case the mutants decided to circle down the eastern bank and come at them from behind. To his mild shock, several Enclave soldiers joined them, marching side by side with the Brotherhood warriors as they took up position on the broken bridge.

Seeing the Brotherhood rally, unshaken by the loss of their only route home, many of the wastelanders stopped panicking. Though their army was fractured, they rallied to their own leaders and set about assembling a defense. The Brotherhood, accompanied by the enclave soldiers, slowly made their way to the

Glade found Sergeant Manny 'The Masher' McClane curled up behind a rusted car. The Star-Paladin turned back and ordered his own division onwards, then when no eyes were upon him, he confronted McClane. The man's helmet was missing, and he was screaming into his microphone. "I want a pickup! Do you hear me? I want out! We have muties coming in from all sides, and the wasters are dropping like flies! I don't care how hot it is, just get a Vertibird in here and pick me up!"

Glade hefted his rifle and smashed the butt end into the back of the man's head, feeling a great deal of catharsis. He pulled off the man's communicator and spoke into it. "Hello?"

A stern, female voice greeted him on the other end. "Hello? Who is this?"

"Sergeant McClane has been relieved of command. You're speaking to Star Paladin Glade of the Brotherhood of Steel, Ma'am. We need air support, and could you tell the mortarmen to back off a little? They're dropping mininukes way too close to our lines. I'm going to try to rally things here, but I need your help."

There was nothing but silence on the other end of the radio. At the southern end of the road, the mutants were beginning to make a push. Glade ran forward, sliding into cover beside Kodiak. Several dozen Talon Mercenaries were there, alongside a few rougher-looking Wasters and two Enclave Hellfire troopers. Together, they had slowed the mutant advance to a virtual deadlock.

"Hold this line!" Glade ordered as a few dozen bullets whizzed above his head and thunked into the concrete slabs all around them.

"We're doing our best, sir!" a young mercenary replied smartly. Glade recognized him from Jackrum's inner circle. Turner was his name. Instead of his usual clipboard, the young warrior was carrying an assault rifle. Judging by the multitude of dead mutants, he was putting it to excellent use. The young man said, "We can hold them, but if we're going to make a push, we need more firepower!"

Behind the encroaching mutant forces, and across the Potomac, were the remnants of the Citadel. And around the corner to his left, around half a kilometer away, lay his objective: Project Purity.

The radio crackled to life again. "Star-Paladin Glade, this is Lieutenant Samantha Summers. We're awaiting bombing coordinates."

"I appreciate that, ma'am."

Glade heard several shouts behind him, and he turned. A division of Wastelanders was marching up the road, all of them Megaton citizens. They were led by their sheriff, Lucas Simms. With his cowboy hat, and grim jaw, he towered over the cowering wastelanders. His division, thirty or so sturdy Megaton fighters, stood firm, taking strength from their leader. He declared, "We're going to hold the line like Stonewall Jackson at Bull Run!"

The Megaton Fighters lined up behind the Talon company mercenaries, firing wave upon wave of lead into the mutant lines. The green hordes broke and fell back, buying them all a moment's respite. The victory did more, however. The other Wastelanders rallied, reforming their divisions. On the opposite side of the river, Glade could see the rest of Jackrum's army. It was moving north in a steady line. They were circling to reconnect, he realized.

They could still survive this.

Glade grabbed the Enclave officer who had called in the airstrike earlier, and dropped him in front of Turner and Simms. "This guy can call in airstrikes. Use him. Jackrum's coming, but I really need you guys to lock this down and keep our army intact until he gets here."

They all paused to add fire as the muties pushed again. Bullets swarmed back and forth, and the ground ahead of them was filled with mutant bodies.

"Where are you going?"

Glade glanced down at the bandana again. He said, "Project Purity. We're going to find their leaders and end this."

"That'll still leave hundreds of muties around." Simms said doubtfully.

"An unorganized mob." Turner replied. "It'll be the end of their army."

"That's a suicide run, though." The Sheriff told them. "Project Purity is a mutie fortress."

"We succeed, we win this war." Glade replied. "I know it's a long shot."

"How are you going to get in?" Turner asked.

"The outflow pipes that pump excess chemicals into the river." Glade said, "They lead into the heart of the project. I'll take a small team in there. We'll find the mutant leader, and kill him."

Simms nodded slowly, then turned back to his division and pulled out two Megaton fighters. "Billy, Lucy, find these men some ammunition!"

The two young wasters saluted and vanished into the crowds of Wasteland fighters. Simms turned back to Glade and shrugged off his sheriff's duster. "Take this. You aren't going to get far unless you cover up all that white armor."

Glade gave the worn leather a somber look before he slipped it over his shoulders. "Thanks."

"We'll hold down the fort." Turner promised. "Just try and stay alive."

Glade pulled Kodiak and two other Brotherhood Knights from the remnant. He placed the rest under Turner's command, and the four of them, wearing threadbare scavenged Brahmin-skin clothes to hide the armor, slipped into the Potomac.

* * *

><p>The resistance was working in shifts, each taking their time at the barricades. They had managed to gain some ground. The bridge to Project Purity was in sight, but there were too many mutants gathered at the far end, flowing in from Anacostia crossing. The bridge itself was impossible to cross. Overlords and mutant masters were dug in at the far end. Mutant riflemen stood at the shoreline to their left, ready to fire at any silhouettes attempting to cross the bridge. Vertibirds couldn't get close to the fortress; the first two that tried were taken down by rocket launchers. The battle was rapidly becoming a stalemate. Except it wouldn't last. Another army of mutants had circled north through D.C. to reemerge out of the Tepid Sewers near Dukov's place and hit Turner's beleaguered forced from behind.<p>

They held, with the help of the Enclave's heavy hitters. Geography assisted as well. The broken section of Arlington Bridge gave wasteland snipers an excellent vantage point for hitting the mutant forces who were approaching through the completely open northern passage, but they soon found themselves under fire from miniguns and tri-beam laser rifles.

The real disaster struck when the mutants came up through the metro system. The battle had been going for almost an hour. The fighting was fierce and heavy, with mutants approaching from both the north and the south. The supermutants were fierce, stupid, bulky creatures and their tactics reflected their direct, brute force tendencies. The metro system running underneath the D.C. ruins consisted mainly of train tunnels and cramped maintenance passages. They would be extremely difficult for a large force of mutants to navigate. In order to flank the stranded wasters, the long column of muties would have to travel underground in single file, searching their way through the maze, just hoping they chose the right passage to bring them back up to ground level. The mutant army had never been that subtle, and the way they had thrown wave after wave after wave at the barricades indicated to Turner that they had no intention of playing it smart.

As it happened entrance to the Irradiated Metro system sat on a plateau right in the middle of the beleaguered wasteland resistance. It had been designated as a rest area, where the wounded and tired could find a moment's respite from the fighting.

It shocked everyone when six overlords with super sledge hammers charged up the slim staircase and laid waste to the wounded wastelanders. Within thirty seconds they had killed twenty-five men, and thrown the entire stranded resistance into chaos. Many humans were hit by friendly fire as the terrified wastelanders fired indiscriminately into the chaos, hoping to drive the mutants back. Supermutant Masters were pouring out onto the plateau behind the berserker overlords, preparing to rake the barricades with minigun fire.

The Enclave saved the day. Under orders from their sergeants, every Hellfire trooper the stranded wasters had, twenty-seven in total, left their posts at the barricades to drive the mutants back. The front rows bravely engaged in vicious hand-to-hand combat with the raging berserker overlords, keeping the disaster contained. Behind them, a steel wall of Hellfire troopers opened up with their heavy incinerators, arcing shots of flaming napalm high up into the sky, to rain fire down upon the plateau, where they scorched and burned everything to ashes, including the wounded wastelanders. The black smoke rose high into the sky, and putrid fumes of napalm and burned flesh scorched everyone's nostrils.

Yet nothing could survive it. Not even the mutants. One by one, the overlords fell, though the Hellfire troopers suffered heavy losses taking them down. The line moved forward, up the stairs and onto the plateau, driving back the cunning mutant offensive, and pushing the green wave back into the Irradiated Metro system.

The departure of the Hellfire troopers meant that the barricades, already strained, had lost a key pillar of their defensive strategy. North and south, they both faltered. The northern barricade crumbled completely, and the wastelanders found themselves being pushed back until the mutant line was halted in the bottleneck right under the broken bridge. A second weaker barricade was formed there, from the bodies of fallen combatants, mutants and human alike.

The southern barricade, which face the brunt of the mutant attack strained and nearly broke. Indeed it would have, were it not for Sheriff Lucas Simms and his fearless Megaton column. With what remained of the Brotherhood, they held the line. Even as a detachment of Talon Company mercenaries left the barricade and headed north to assist the faltering defenses up there.

Turner was with the Hellfire Mercenaries. Six Talon mercenaries were following in his wake, and together with the enclave they drove into the metro system, chasing the mutants back. The fighting through the turnstiles was savage and crowded. The mercenary combat shotguns proved more effective than the incinerators, and soon it was the Talon Company fighting through the hallways, inch by inch, door by door, grate by grate. Sometimes the combatants were less than a meter apart when they met. Mutant bodies stack up to the point where the mercenaries were forced to wade and crawl through them, ducking as they did so to avoid banging their heads on the ceiling. Feral ghouls came pouring out of the woodwork, ambushing both sides and turning the affair into a chaotic three-way brawl.

Using what ordinance they had left, Turner directed the Mercenaries to find the weak points in the metro system, and together they collapsed several tunnels, blocking off the mutant access. After that they had to fight their way back out through dozens of feral ghouls.

Turner was never so happy to see daylight in his life. Soaked in blood and stinking of gunpowder, He collapsed beside the metro entrance, taking a moment's desperate respite. He glanced across the river at the Wasteland Resistance Camp. It was empty, save for a few Enclave officers.

"C'mon, Jackrum." He murmured, eyeing the burnt mutant corpses lying all around him on the blackened pavement, "We can't keep this up forever."

* * *

><p><strong>I kept promising this was coming, and here it is. I want to assure you that if this series dies prematurely, I will post a notice to let all of you know. Until then, expect new chapters. <strong>**Thank you very much for your patience. I'm aware this is far beyond late in coming.**


	36. Chapter 36

**Mutatis Mutandis 36**

The march up the west side of the Potomac was a hectic and worried affair. Jackrum and his lieutenants led the charge, backed up by mercs with hunting rifles. On the far side of the river, mutant forces heading south stopped to exchange fire. Streams of bullets flew back and forth constantly, halting many Wasters as they dug in to pick targets. The rest of the wasteland forces moved past them, following the riverbank.

The wastelanders found a way across at the Anchorage memorial bridge, but found themselves stranded on the memorial itself. The man-made peninsula was a defensible position, one which the mutants held successfully for a good seven minutes until an enclave airstike could be called in. the memorial was obliterated, with chunks of stone thrown in every direction. The three-dozen mutants holding the island were thrown to the ground, most of them dead.

The wastelanders crossed with ease and took the peninsula, but promptly found themselves being fired upon on all sides. The road across the moat was filled with angry mutants, and the Wastelander's offensive came grinding to a halt. Jackrum set a quarter of his remaining forces to hold the Anchorage bridge, and prevent the mutants from taking it back. He led the rest of them even further along the western bank, searching for a way across.

They reached Wilhelm's Wharf, and were immediately set upon by mutants on the opposite bank. The bulky green shapes lined up on the opposite sea wall and fired a barrage of rockets at the wharf, turning it to splinters, and killing over a dozen wasters. The entire area was nearly devoid of cover, and Jackrum quickly diverted his troops away from the shoreline. He marched them northwest up a steep hill and onto a bluff where buildings and a stone wall protected them.

Wasteland snipers hid amongst the rocks and fired back, killing a few mutants, but the rocket launchers were soon replaced by miniguns, and the massive rain of lead brought Jackrum's entire advance to a halt yet again as the wastelanders dove desperately for cover.

Once again the day was saved by Enclave personnel. In their thick armor, they were the only ones who could walk freely through the bullet storm, and they did, tearing enormous sheets of corrugated steel from cars, and buildings. They even dismantled Grandma Sparkle's Shack.

The sheets were put to use forming a protective barrier between the wastelanders and the supermutant miniguns. Jackrum's forces moved more freely up the hill and out of danger. As the last of them passed by, the enclave soldiers dropped their panels and folded up their lines, following Jackrum north.

He finally found passage across just east of the Super-Duper Mart at the northern-western edge of downtown D.C.. The river grew shallow enough that a crossing was within the realm of possibility. A mutant force tried to ambush them from the overpass above the river, but Jackrum's scouts had spotted them, and reported back. Wishing to avoid a repeat of the ambush at Wilhelm's Wharf, Jackrum called the Vertibirds for a preventative strike. Just as Jackrum's forces left the protection of D.C.'s derelict buildings, a few Vertibirds passed low overhead, and fired a salvo of missiles at the overpass's concrete supports. The structure collapsed into the river, simultaneously killing a dozen mutants, and making the river shallow enough to wade across. An answering barrage of missiles flew out of the eastern ruins, trailing black smoke behind them. One of the Vertibirds went down just north of the Wasteland forces and exploded in a miniature mushroom cloud.

Aware of his time constraints, and Sergeant Turner's dwindling resistance, Jackrum decided to take the risk. He ordered his men across in a long column three abreast. The mutants attacked once again, springing their trap just as the first column triumphantly set foot on the east riverbank. Masters and brutes poured out of the Farragut Metro Station, and an entire mutant horde numbering close to eighty appeared on the crest of the riverbank, having marched straight from their camp just south of the Chryslus building with orders to hold the bank at all costs.

The wasteland column caught in the water was slaughtered by incoming fire. Water and blood sprayed in equal measure, and soon the river had turned red. The screams of dying wastelanders filled the air, matched only by the sounds of rage and grief from those still left on the western shoreline.

"To cover!" Jackrum cried, "Find cover!" The wasteland army scrambled and dispersed, with groups of dozens finding shelter behind boulders and concrete and broken cars. A sizeable chunk retreated back to the shelter of the super-duper mart, safe from hostile fire, but also unable to respond in kind.

Jackrum scrambled from cover to cover, dodging bullets and trying to strengthen his fighters' fraying nerves. Amongst one group of Mercs he found a young, fresh-faced Enclave officer. Her nametag identified her as Campbell, but Jackrum recognized her as Sergeant Turner's young lady friend.

"You!" he barked, sliding into cover beside her, "Do you have a radio?"

"I've already called for backup!" she shouted back. They both ducked as a missile flew overhead and detonated behind them, killing three more wasters.

"God damn it all to hell! Hold them back, boys! Hold them back!" Jackrum hollered. He shouldered his rifle and fired across the river at an exposed mutant, planting half a dozen rounds in the monster's side. It keeled over and slid out of sight, only to be replaced by two of its comrades.

From the south came the sound of whirring rotor blades. The wastelanders cheered as four vertibirds swooped in from the Arlington cemetary, bearing down on the mutant horde. Their joy was cut short, however, when volleys of rockets trailed out from the mutant positions. One vertibird veered off course, two rockets missing by mere inches. Another one was hit in the rotor, and went down in the Potomac. The third Vertibird hit a rocket head-on. The explosion took off the aircraft's nose, and sent it spiraling into the mutant positions, killing quite a few of the monsters in a massive fireball. The fourth took a glancing hit on the wing, and was forced into a rough landing in the super-mart's parking lot. None of them had fired a shot. The mutants had learned not to let them get close enough.

"Fuck!" Jackrum hissed furiously as his men watched in forlorn silence.

"It's too hot, sir." Campbell reported, one hand pressed to the receiver in her ear. There are no more coming."

"How are we supposed to take the bank now?" Jackrum demanded, giving the situation a quick examination.

The wastelanders were under fire, pinned behind boulders and trapped in the ruins of shore-side restaurants and office buildings. Across the riverbank, the mutant reinforcements were digging in, lugging around chunks of concrete, and laying out barbed wire to fence off the northern edge of the east bank. Jackrum could make out the bulk of several overlords carrying super sledgehammers.

Not only were the mutants determined to hold the bank, they were preparing to launch an offensive to expel the wasters entirely from the western ruins. They were going to take Arlington, and drive the resistance into the open wastes, where they could be easily hunted and cut down by the mutants' superior numbers.

The river was full of wastelander bodies. Jackrum knew his troops couldn't cross at the Farragut metro station. Not with the amount of incoming fire; mutant forces had a commanding hold on the river. Heading any further north was equally as hazardous, as the action would take his forces into the open wasteland where the mutants could flank and pummel them far more easily. Now with no enclave reinforcements, Jackrum's hope of advancing and relieving Turner's trapped wasters was crumbling, alongside his hope of winning the battle.

"What's that?" Campbell asked, pointing northeast. In the distance there was a prominent rocky cliff, which jutted out over the highway which led straight from the wasteland into the heart of D.C.. An old pre-war sign had been placed there, and its white enclave mural contrasted against the darkness of the Bethesda ruins which lay behind it.

An enormous figure was standing before it, holding a minigun. Jackrum for a moment thought it was a mutant, but it was just a little too small, and after another moment's examination, he recognized the insectoid power armor of the Chosen One.

Jackrum grinned, and pulled out his cigarette package. "Cavalry's here, boys. Let's sit back and watch the show."

* * *

><p>What Jackrum did not know was that the waster attack on the Supermutant-controlled ruins had been two-pronged. Narg had in fact arrived in Northern D.C. before dawn that very morning. The Tribal had led his mechanical, and insect army into an all-out assault on the Northern ruins of D.C.. The attack had been successful. Most of the mutants had been gathering at the mall, and outside of Rivet City in preparation for Jackrum's impending assault. They had left the northern sections of the ruins nearly undefended.<p>

The Ant Army, with assistance from the Mechanist's heavy-duty war machines had driven fairly deep into the D.C. ruins, getting as far as Georgetown before being chased out by a force of mutants three-hundred strong.

Narg, much to his private irritation, had then retreated. Normally he would have stayed and simply battered his way through his enemies until he was the last man standing. That was how fights usually went. But in this case, victory through captured ground was not his true intention. His intention was to coax large chunks of Brutus' army out of the center of D.C., thinning the resistance which Jackrum's army would encounter. The plan worked. Those three-hundred mutants who had driven back his attack did not bunker down as he had feared, but rather followed recklessly, charging after him into the maze of D.C., and leaving their Brethren behind.

He once again met them in battle at the Chryslus building, where he and the Mechanist's robots held the building itself, sending wave upon wave of ants at the attacking mutants, slowly whittling down their numbers. His army had killed just over a third of the attacking forces when the mutants suddenly split. Nearly a hundred remained, carrying on the battle against him, and the rest headed east to the riverside.

Clearly Jackrum had hit a nerve, but a hundred mutants were more than enough to change the outcome of a battle. Narg had decided to follow them east. Now he stood on a cliff watching Jackrum's failed march, and the supermutants which were slowly gaining ground. Narg stared down at the beleaguered Wasters and shook his head. "What a gong show…"

Beside him, the Mechanist appeared. "Shall we relieve our comrades?"

"Yep. Where's the crazy Ant lady?"

He heard a whirring noise, and turned, searching the skies. Three giant ant queens emerged from the north-east, wings beating ferociously. Sitting astride the central queen was the AntAgonizer, waving her arms and crying, "Now, my children! Attack! Attack!"

Streams of acidic saliva sprayed the mutant lines, burning flesh and melting weapons. The mutants answered with missiles, but Narg shouldered his BOZAR assault rifle and shot them as they came.

"Forward, my mechanical army!" The Mechanist charged forward, his robots trundling after him, flanked by streams of Ants.

The mutants responded to the new threat, half of their forces turning their guns on the ant formation. The mechanist's robots immediately formed an armored front, covering the advance of the weaker ants behind them. Hundreds of rounds bounced uselessly off of the securitrons' armoured shells. Each robot responded in kind, blasting the mutants with minigun fire and missiles, and throwing their entrenched defense into disarray.

The distraction gave the Wastelanders a momentary reprieve, and Jackrum took full advantage of it, slipping his army north and east, finally crossing the river.

* * *

><p>Star-Paladin Glade stood silent in the darkness of the man-sized drain pipe. The Pride had made it to Project Purity's outflow pond, and right at that moment, the men under his command were busy removing the grating which separated the pond from the Potomac River. Above his head, Glade could hear thudding Supermutant footfalls; frequent and heavy as patrols stomped back and forth across the bridge. Water lapped at his chest, and he kept his assault rifle dry and ready, pointed through the grate towards the mutants on the opposite bank of the outflow pond. Kodiak was beside him, looking grim but determined.<p>

Glade eyed the red bandana tied around his forearm, and felt the weight of the duster Sheriff Simms had given him. He wished to god that the Lone Wanderer was there. It was true the young man hadn't always been friendly, but this was exactly his sort of mission. Glade tried to remind himself that the Lyons Pride had also been formed for missions like these, but since the Wanderer had appeared, Glade had taken it for granted that the most dangerous assignments would be taken care of by someone else. He had grown used to letting the Wanderer single-handedly solve all the wasteland problems, and he felt a sudden rush of gratitude for all the brotherhood lives the young man had saved, and a surge of shame for taking the Wanderer's willingness to sacrifice for granted.

No wonder he had been so short and terse all the time.

There was a dull metallic thud, and the Brotherhood soldiers lowered the grate into the water as quietly as they could.

"Stay low, and move slowly." Glade breathed. "Remember: we're here for Brutus. The muties outside aren't our concern. But our job will be much easier if they don't know we were ever here."

He led the way into the pond, keeping in the shadows of Project Purity's many pipes. When Project Purity had been sabotaged, Sarah Lyons had been sent all the way to Point Lookout to hunt for a new G.E.C.K.. The Wanderer had been sent after the culprits, but there was still plenty for the rest of the Brotherhood to do, materials to collect to rebuild what was lost and damaged. Glade had been sent on several high-risk missions into D.C. to find pumps, pipes, valves, and computer equipment to rebuild the project and prepare it for the G.E.C.K.'s arrival.

He had also been conscripted as manual labor for lifting and positioning said parts. He knew the layout of the new Project Purity. He had spent enough time around it for the scribes' knowledge to rub off a little. He knew which pipes led to the heart of the project, and he was aiming for a smaller pipe which led directly to the flood pools at the very heart of Project Purity.

Though he wasn't aware of it, he was heading for the same pipe the Wanderer had been in when the Enclave had first shown up more than four years beforehand.

He found the entrance grate a good four feet above the bank of the pond. With Kodiak's help, he clambered up into the entrance and began to unscrew the bolts which held the grate in place. Across the pond, dozens of mutants rushed back and forth, howling at each other. Off in the distance to the north, Glade could hear the crackle of gunfire. He hoped Sergeant Turner was holding fast, and that the battle was going well for the Wastelanders.

Down in the water below, the five Brotherhood soldiers kept their weapons trained on the opposite bank. They were hunched low, braced against the pond's lapping waves, and staying alert in case they were spotted.

The final rusty bolt came loose with a squeal which echoed down the pipe, and made Glade's heart freeze, but the sound got lost in the noise of the battle. He carefully let the grate down and stared into the darkness of the tunnel, making sure it was clear before he turned back and lay on his stomach.

Kodiak was first up, grabbing Glade's arm and pulling himself up into the tunnel. His armour was a dirty brown, stained by the river mud, but it was still far more noticeable than the brown duster Simms had lent Glade. One by one the Star Paladin pulled his small band into the darkness. He propped the grate up behind him, gave the oblivious mutant forces one last cautious look, and then led his squad into Project Purity, towards Brutus.

They were determined to cut the head off the snake or die trying.

* * *

><p>Turner's beleaguered forces had held out for almost three hours now. Simms and the Megaton fighters had been absolutely invaluable, as had the Enclave, yet they were running low on everything. Men, weapons, and ammunition. His shoulder hurt from the constant thudding of his rifle. He had three different weapons propped beside him, and they were being reloaded by a wounded wastelanders named Mel. The man had been shot in the gut nearly a half-hour before, but was determined to be of use, so he lay against the southern barricade, reloading weapons for those who were still able to aim and fire.<p>

Turner switched routinely between a hunting rifle, and assault rifle, and a combat shotgun. He used the assault rifle whenever the mutants decided to charge their barricade, which happened routinely every five or six minutes. The hunting rifle was for after they retreated, and the combat shotgun was for when they got too close.

The barricade had actually moved south a few meters. Enclave troopers had piled mutant bodies up during a momentary lull, and the entire line was slowly creeping closer to Project Purity. It was still of great relief when a cheer came up from the northern barricade. Turner was in the middle of aiming at a distant mutant. A bullet thumped into the body of the dead overlord he was propped against, but he ignored it and pulled the trigger. His rifle kicked against his bruised shoulder, and a red cloud erupted from the mutant's chest. It fell back, only to be propped up by one of its companions.

Turner pumped the bolt back and forth and took a second shot, listening to the cheering going on behind him. His bullet hit the mutant in the jaw, and it dropped out of sight. He flopped back against the barricade, staring northwards. The surviving wastelanders were crowding north, chattering excitedly. Turner grabbed a young blond Megaton fighter and pointed her towards the crowd. "Find out what's going on, would you, Lucy?"

"Yes Sarge!" She scampered off, keeping low to avoid the mutant brutes who were taking pot shots on the waster barricade.

Turner heard a now familiar battle cry, and turned back to the mutant lines. Several Supermutant masters were charging forward, leading another reckless charge at the wastelanders. Turner grabbed his assault rifle and opened fire. All around him fighters from Megaton and Enclave soldiers did the same. Bullets, plasma blasts, and lasers arced from the piled of mutant bodies, cutting the charge to ribbons. A hellfire trooper nearby was using an assault rifle, his incinerator having long since run out of fuel.

The mutants howled and clambered angrily towards the barricade, waving all manner of weaponry. Everything from wooden boards to bits of concrete and rebar to sledge hammers. Behind them, more mutants were approaching, with assault rifles and hunting rifles. As the initial wave fell to wastelanders bullets, they replied in kind. The air was soon thick with fire and foggy with smoke and powder.

Through the fog, Turner could make out the shape of an enormous Overlord, approaching at a brisk pace. At his side were a dozen masters, shouting instructions back and forth. Brutes circled, trying to suppress the Wasters at the barricade. Turner grabbed another loaded assault rifle from Mel and unleashed an entire clip into the overlord. The bullets kicked and sparked against the creature, and as it emerged from the smog, he realized it was covered in heavy plate armour, stripped from the sides of a vertibird and bent by hand. It was slightly more intelligent than the others, and as he met its wrathful gaze, he realized that it recognized him as the leader.

It pointed at him a moment later, waving a giant super-sledgehammer.

He handed the empty rifle to Mel and traded it for a loaded Chinese assault rifle. The line of mutants advanced, growing larger and more menacing with every step. Turner unloaded the Chinese assault rifle at the overlord's head, but it raised its arm and shielded its face. A few bullets slipped through cracks in its armor, but not enough. It pressed forward even more rapidly than before.

Turner grabbed his combat shotgun and began to blast away at it. Shot by shot pellets splashed against the thick armor plates. One round caught the bindings which fastened one of its shoulder pads and the armour piece came loose.

Though most of its comrades had fallen to wasteland bullets, the overlord was at the barricade, staring angrily down at Turner. Behind it, he could see more of the armoured overlords approaching through the fog, leading a few dozen more mutants. The battle was far from over. Turner raised his combat shotgun, realizing he had one last clear shot at the monster's face, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

The weapon's drum was empty. With a cold shock, Turner realized that he had already fired twelve shots.

The mutant bellowed in rage and swung down with its hammer-

An armoured fist caught the weapon just below the head.

The Chosen one was standing behind Turner, winding up with his other hand. "Hey ugly!" the power-armoured giant slammed his curled fist into the overlord's face. His power-fist's kinetic release increased the power of the blow by tenfold, and the overlord's face caved inwards. It dropped to the ground, stone dead.

The Chosen one stepped over Turner, and vaulted the barricade, charging at the mutant line, and swinging his liberated supersledge back and forth. To Turner's everlasting horror, he was followed by a wave of skittering, fire-breathing ants, and heavy, trundling robots. The insects skittered right over him, their sharp, jointed legs digging into his abdomen. He curled up against the barricade, half-sure he'd gone mad.

He could hear the joyful cheering of wastelanders, and the pattering of dozens upon dozens of feet. A pair of hands grabbed the collar of his combat armour and dragged him to safety.

"Turner! Sergeant Turner! Stand up, kid! Pull yourself together! It's alright! Everything's alright!"

Recognizing the gravelly voice, and the smell of rancid cigarette smoke, Turner opened his eyes. A hundred angry wastelanders were streaming past him towards Project Purity and Rivet City.

Commander Jackrum was kneeling at his side, one arm around his back, propping him up, the other on his shoulder.

Jackrum gave him a gentle shake. "You alright kid?"

"Sarge?" Turner blinked in disbelief. "Sarge?"

"It's commander, kid. You're the Sergeant now, remember?" the Commander laughed and shook his head, giving his protégé an affectionate punch to the shoulder. "You made it through, kid! You damned well made it through!"

"What's happening, sarge?" Turner asked weakly. He felt tired and light-headed. Giddiness swept through him as he watched the collected forces of the capital wasteland surge past, bringing all their righteous wrath with them. "There were ants and robots."

"We got some…unconventional backup." Jackrum pointed up to the sky, where a trio of giant ant queens were circling, spitting acid and carrying dozens of wastelanders towards rivet city's flight deck.

Turner felt a great sense of relief overwhelm him. His aching shoulder, and sore joints all seemed to pile up as the adrenaline faded. Suddenly every movement was an exercise in pain tolerance. He hissed with every motion, and tottered on weak, aching knees.

"Whoa. Easy kid." Jackrum said, grabbing him by the shoulders to steady him. "Take it easy."

"Christopher!" Turner heard a familiar voice shouted his first name, and he barely had time to turn around before he was engulfed by a blurry enclave uniform. Brown hair filled his nose and mouth as Enclave Lieutenant Sally Campbell, his girlfriend, caught him in a joyful embrace. She grinned up at him, and he leaned down to give her a passionate kiss, pressing their mouths together.

"Blech." She smacked her lips. "You taste like gunpowder."

"Fuckin' kids." Jackrum murmured, shaking his head. Sally spotted the old commander and turned bright red, recalling the moment back in Evergreen Mills when he had barged in on the couple during one of their trysts. Turner blinked down at her adoringly, and tried his best to smile, but his body was clocking out. Shock, stress and adrenaline were presenting their bills. All he wanted to do was sleep.

"Battle's still going, kid." "Jackrum prompted. "Here, Campbell, give me a hand!" together they marched him forward, dragging him along with the flow of the wastelanders as they poured towards Rivet City, and the concrete fortress of Project Purity.

* * *

><p>Glade kicked the grate out and leapt down into the flood pool with a splash. Darkness reigned. The light, where it shone at all, was dim. It shone down several floors from the surface grates in pale blue beams. The bottom floor of Project purity's sub-basement was cold and damp. Dust hung heavy in the air, bringing with it a putrid chemical smell. Muffled through layers of concrete and earth, he could hear the crackle of gunfire and the faded shouts of angry mutants from the battle so far above their heads.<p>

The room was empty, save for the two turbid flood pools. It was much larger than Glade remembered, and quite long. The concrete walls were in almost complete shadow. Light shone through two doorways, each of them leading to other parts of the basement complex.

In the center of the floor, two rusted steel I-beams had been driven at odd angles deep into the ground. Their sharp points jutted eight feet into the air. Four chains hung off of them, and each had a shackle on its end. Beside the apparatus was a little medical cart with an empty syringe.

Glade's squad followed, and as the last warrior landed, they formed up, each one's rifle pointing to a different section of the room.

"We're in." Kodiak said, his voice echoing far too loudly in the muffled silence. "What now?"

A baritone voice echoed in the darkness, deep and ominous. "Assassins and thieves. Is this what the Brotherhood has been reduced to?"

Glade shared a worried glance with Kodiak. "Hello? Who are you?"

"Brutus." The voice answered. "I knew Jackrum would send you. Such a waste. Such an utter waste."

"Show yourself!"

The room echoed with snide laughter. "Do you think me as simple as that? If I reveal myself, you'll simply shoot me. That is your mission, yes? What a desperate gambit."

Glade began to move slowly, towards the edge of the pool. His team formed up behind him, rifles trained in every direction.

"What is your name, Brotherhood?"

"Star Paladin Glade."

"Glade. I've been dealing with human beings a long, long time. And the one thing I've realized is just what filthy, crawling, pathetic creatures you are. You eat, you drink, you fuck, you kill and you die. No vision. No morals, and no future."

Glade slipped out of the pool and kneeled between the two steel beams. Kodiak and the others followed.

"You've had your time. Humanity destroyed this world, it is true, but you also created its salvation. The FEV virus. You gave the world the Supermutants. A purer race. Superior in every way."

"Dumber, on average." Glade pointed out, rising to his feet.

"Yet we drove you to the very edge of the wasteland." Brutus sounded ever so slightly annoyed.

"And here we are, back again." He moved forward, comforted by the brothers at his shoulders. They scanned the darkness, searching for an outline, but the hostile shadows refused to give up their secrets.

"Even if you win this skirmish, do you think it an achievement? You've exhausted your forces to win this one battle. I have legions waiting in the ruins of D.C.. Hundreds upon hundreds of mutants. And hundreds more than that. This war has barely begun and out of pure desperation you've already sold your souls to the enclave. To old technology and old ideals. I'm here to offer the world something better. Something new. Something… pure. Shall I show you the future?"

Glade heard a thump behind him, and a reptilian hiss. He snapped around, rifle at the ready, as did his brothers. A tall, lanky abomination stood between the rusted posts, silhouetted against a beam of light. Its veins pulsed, tracing glowing green lines across its body. It was navy blue in color, with thin black stripes arcing over its shoulders and down its flanks. The creature was stark naked save for a simple leather loincloth, and beneath its navy skin Glade could see long, tough muscles. Each finger ended in a veiny clawed hand. It was hairless, but small horns ran along either side of its head, guiding the gaze down to its angry brows and glowing green eyes.

"I'd love to introduce you two, Glade," Brutus' voice echoed. "But I believe you've already met the fabled Lone Wanderer from Vault 101."

Glade's heart jumped into his throat as the monster's glowing green gaze snapped to his. The alien eyes narrowed. He searched its face for something familiar, but whatever Brutus had injected the Wanderer with, it had altered him completely. There was nothing left but that hostile, skeletal glare.

"Jason!" Brutus barked.

The abomination's head twitched to the side, responding to the voice of authority. It clicked several times, as if sounding out its supermutant master.

"These men have invaded your home. They've come to murder me. They've come to stop us." The beast hissed, glowing eyes narrowing as it gazed upon the six brotherhood soldiers. It crouched slightly, tensed like a savage feline, awaiting its master's order.

"But we won't let them, will we, Jason?"

The creature hissed again, flexing its claws, and eyeing the Brotherhood intruders, cataloguing faces, weapons, and locations, just as the Lone Wanderer used to do.

Brutus let out a soft laugh. "Jason, kill!"

* * *

><p><strong>God this chapter feels rushed and lackluster to me, but at least it's getting finished. This Story Will. Be. Finished.<strong>

**If you'll recall the very opening of this story started in medias res. what you see before you is the conclusion of that scene.**

**I realize that it's a little late in the story for Turner's girlfriend to be introduced like she's suddenly a major character, but she is certainly important to Turner, and my muse demanded that the stakes be raised just a little higher. It's been a long time since I posted chapter 30, but that's when she was introduced. I also really like Turner, and I wanted him to have a happy ending. Of sorts.**

**It has been what, five or six months since I was last updating regularly? But I figured out the problem after all this time: the pond dried up. I got tired of working in the capital wasteland. The muse was spent. I needed a new story with different characters who solve their problems in different ways. I needed some distance from this universe for a while. There was a time when I never thought I'd say that, but I just did. I got tired of Fallout.**

**And now I'm back. I'm going to finish this story, and then pause for a little while to make progress on another story in a different fandom. **

**But one day in the near future, you'll see a new story appear called **_**Fallout: Children of the Atom.**_


	37. Chapter 37

**Mutatis Mutandis 37**

Now this was Narg's kind of fight! A head-long charge into enemy lines. He reveled in the chaos. The Wastelanders' charge had driven the mutants all the way back to the concrete fortress of Project Purity. Now the army had split in half, with the bulk of Jackrum's forces heading towards Rivet City. Narg himself had a platoon of followers, mostly wasters from Megaton, and a few enclave personnel. The Mutants had used enormous slabs of concrete to surround Project Purity in an enormous circular maze with far too many dead ends and kill zones. A challenging assault for any regular wastelander.

Narg was anything but regular. He approached at a brisk walk, marching across the bridge and cutting down the swaths of mutants which fled before him towards the safety of the concrete maze. He gave chase, using his BOZAR to pop mutant heads as they appeared above the battlements.

He reached the concrete maze with little effort. An armoured overlord was waiting with another supersledge. Narg dodged its first stroke, which turned the concrete wall beside him to dust. The Chosen One shove the tip of his BOZAR through a slit in the overlord's helmet and emptied half his magazine into the gap. The mutant fell to the ground, blood oozing from its helmet.

A grenade landed beside Narg, and he took a few steps back, pushing an overeager wastelander behind him, and turning his head to the side, protecting the lenses and gaps in his helmet. The grenade exploded with a dull whumph, sending shards of shrapnel flying in all directions. Tiny wisps of dust puffed from a dozen different spots on the walls of the narrow corridor. At the same moment, Narg felt something impact his armoured leg, and he heard a sharp hiss. Liquid sprayed out from his knee joint in a thin stream.

A piece of shrapnel had managed to find its way between the armour plates, where it had punctured a hydraulic tube. He grunted in frustrating as his armour locked up momentarily. He could hear and feel the cachunk of valves rerouting hydraulic fluid away from the leak and through secondary hydraulic systems.

He stood there, still as a statue for about four seconds, and then his armour unlocked, allowing him the freedom of movement he so enjoyed. At that same moment, a mutant with a hunting rifle poked its head up over a low point in the concrete barricade, and took a potshot. The bullet bounced off Narg's chest and ricocheted one more time off the slab at his side, leaving a dull white mark.

Narg marched up to the wall and drove his fist through it, grabbing the mutant by the throat and dragging it back, pulling the wall down, and moving one layer closer to Project Purity. The mutant landed at his feet, and he stomped on its chest a few times, crushing it. The new corridor he had opened up was full of its brothers, and he moved quickly, gunning them down as they came.

The wastelanders following him had managed to catch up, though they were spread thin, engaged in vicious close-range trench combat, where the mutants held the advantage.

"Chosen One!" An enclave trooper cried, pointing down another corridor. A supermutant overlord was advancing slowly down the corridor, holding up an entire car in front of it like a riot shield. The wastelander bullets bounced harmlessly off its undercarriage.

Narg jogged a few meters down a parallel trench, and when he judged the distance was right, he rammed the concrete wall with his shoulder, pushing the slab over, and appearing just behind the surprised overlord, who was holding the car up with one thick, veiny arm, and a sledgehammer with the other. Narg sank his fist into its kidneys and it fell to one knee, arching its back against the pain. He reached over its head, hooked his fingers in its mouth and pulled upwards. The mutant gurgled and fell sideways, clutching what little was left of its face.

A heavy weight fell against Narg's shoulders, driving him to one knee. There had been a pack of nearly a dozen mutants behind the overlord, and they fell upon him with fury, bearing him to the ground.

Yet the car had fallen over, exposing them to the laser guns of the enclave soldiers, who opened up immediately, cutting them down, and chasing them away from the Chosen One.

"Are you alright, sir?" they asked respectfully, helping him to his feet.

Narg nodded, taken aback by their politeness. Yet they all knew that without him, they wouldn't be making such incredible progress. They had been among Jackrum's army during the Mercenary's drive northward, and they knew that Narg had saved their hides. It was an awkward alliance, but while they had his brute power at their disposal, they intended to keep things on friendly terms.

"The Wasteland army is in trouble, sir." One hellfire trooper reported. "They say there's a group of mutants with Gatling lasers on Project Purity's eastern rampart. They've pinned Jackrum's forces and they can't advance to Rivet City."

Narg sighed. "Do I have to do everything myself?"

The troopers exchanged confused glances.

"Alright, alright. Let's go." Narg began to ram his way through the maze, tearing down every concrete slab which got in his way. He knew the ramparts, of course, they had existed before the mutants had taken control of the wasteland. The outflow pipes ran below them. They provided an excellent view of the outflow pond, and the wasteland around it; the exact area Jackrum was trying to cross. Add to that the elevation and the corrugated steel plates the mutants had used to turn the ramparts into battlements, and it would not take much to control the fields between Rivet City and the Potomac.

Narg wrenched down the last slab, reaching the innermost layer of the supermutant defenses. His team closed up behind him, finding themselves being assaulted from all directions by angry green muties.

The moment he pulled the wall down, a hail of bullets rained down from surrounding battlements. Mutants were standing in the columns of the memorial itself, taking cover behind the husks of cars, and fallen Nuka Cola machines.

Narg shrugged off his Avenger minigun and sprayed the ramparts all around him, cutting a deadly trail from one mutant to the next. The advantage of standing in the center of the mutant defenses was that aside from the mutants on the memorial, none of the surrounding beasts had anything to hide behind; their defenses were designed to repel a large-scale attack from the outside.

Narg had faced much worst during his own adventures out west, but this was his kind of battle. None of the Vault Dweller's complicated tactics and stratagems, and none of the Wanderer's sneaking. Narg had the better armour, and he had the better minigun. He put them both to use, and within ten seconds, he had decimated the supermutants. The empty area ran red with mutant blood. Corpses were piled against every wall. The mutants cowered in their little castle atop the memorial, taking the occasional pot shot, but Narg knew that he had just broken the back of Project Purity's supermutant defenses. Before him lay a fifty-meter circle of open ground, surrounded by an empty concrete maze. There was a small door in the nearby wall, and beside it, the ramparts which were apparently giving Jackrum so much trouble.

Narg left the wasters to deal with the remaining mutants. He charged up the ramparts to flush out the band of mutants and give Jackrum the help he needed.

The supermutants had carved up buses, hanging the remains along the outer railing of the rampart to give themselves decent cover. Yet there was still only one way up, and it was better defended than Narg had expected. As he reached the top of the ramp, a car hit him in the gut. Not a full-sized model, thank god, but one of the smaller, three-wheeled Fusion Flea Supreme. An overlord had picked up the vehicle and hurled it at him.

It hit him in the gut, winding him, and sending him tumbling back down the ramp. His BOZAR landed at the bottom. The car rolled off of him and slid to the side, getting edged against the railing. Narg had barely recovered when the Overlord brought a supersledge down on his chest. Narg's power armour squealed in protest, but the thick armoured plating held, and underneath it the hydraulic exoskeleton was still functional.

Narg kicked out, hitting the mutant's knee as it wound up for another blow. It fell, but turned the setback into an advantage, landing on top of him and wrapping its thickset arms around him in a deadly bear hug. They rolled down the ramp together, Narg kicking and elbowing as best he could. The mutant struggled to keep its grip, and it gripped the breathing tubes attached to Narg's helmet, ripping them away. Unfiltered wasteland air filled Narg's helmet. Suddenly he could smell the blood and smoke of the battle.

The Chosen One's armour was beginning to groan against the pressure of the overlord's squeezing. Narg felt a bolt shear, then another as the superstructure of his armour bent. He whipped his head back and knocked the back of his helmet against the mutant's nose. It yelped and loosened its grip just enough to let him go.

Narg pushed away and slid down the ramp, grabbing his BOZAR at the bottom. He rolled onto his back and unloaded a clip into the Fusion Flea. The car exploded like a mininuke, biting an enormous chunk out of the ramp, and taking most of the overlord with it.

Narg struggled to his feet again and reloaded. At the top of the ramp, several supermutant masters lined up with their Gatling lasers. He sighted down the barrel and opened up, spraying them all with 5.56mm rounds. For the second time, he charged up the ramp, shooting mutants as they came. He cleared the ramparts in seconds and took a moment for himself. One the ground below, Jackrum's forces moved forward, striking out for Rivet City.

* * *

><p>Jackrum had tried to move east around Project Purity, letting the Chosen One take the fortress. The old merc thanked his lucky stars that the Tribal had chosen to fight alongside them. Between him, the Wanderer, and the Enclave, there was a very real chance the wastelanders could win this fight.<p>

The moment Jackrum's army turned the corner and had an open view of Rivet City, the ramparts of the Project Purity fortress had lit up, spraying every inch of ground with deadly lasers. Mercs and wasters alike found themselves pinned under meager cover, hiding from the fortress ramparts, but still very much exposed to those mutants who were gathered around Rivet City.

Heavy gunfire had been exchanged inside the fort as the Chosen One took the ramparts, then an explosion, and after that the lasers had ceased.

Jackrum ordered his men forward in loose formations. The ground between Project Purity and Rive City was nearly devoid of meaningful cover. Especially when supermutants were perched on Rivet City's flight deck, which offered a perfect view of the surrounding wasteland. Wasteland snipers did their best to counter, but progress was difficult, and the losses were heavy. Eventually over a third of Jackrum's available forces were immobilized, focused solely on suppressing the mutants atop Rivet City.

Gunfire could still be heard in the bowels of the ship; in those confined spaces the city's residents held a distinct advantage. But the mutants held the top decks, and more of them were pouring across the lowered drawbridge at every minute. Enough to overwhelm the city.

Jackrum stood at the wall of the mutant's purifier fortress. He had acquired a hunting rifle, and was with Turner, trying to add what support he could. Despite their best efforts, the wasteland forces were taking too much punishment. The field was littered with dead wastelanders, and more than a few Enclave personnel who had tried to make a difference. They could handle the fire coming from the mutants on the ground. But from Rivet City's flight deck, they commanded the entire stretch of open ground.

Jackrum tapped Enclave Officer Campbell on the shoulder, yelling over the gunfire. "Can you get another message to the Chosen One? I need him on Rivet City's flight deck now!"

"Yes sir!" she replied dutifully, thumbing her radio.

* * *

><p>Narg was at the door to Project Purity when an Enclave soldier tapped him on the shoulder. He turned, glaring through his helmet at the man. "What?"<p>

"The wastelanders have encountered a setback, Tribal. I've called in a Vertibird. They want to drop you on the aircraft carrier's flight deck. The orders come from Commander Jackrum."

Narg paused a minute, listening to the intensity of the gunfire. He said, "And you guys can take the purifier?"

"No," the trooper admitted, "But we can keep the mutants bottled up inside."

Narg glanced around at his ragged band. Merc, Enclave, and Waster, they all looked exhausted, but equally as determined to keep fighting. "That'll have to do, won't it?" He said.

The vertibird was already approaching, speeding across the water, fast and low. It's rotors roared as they beat the air. Several rockets exploded around it as mutants atop Rivet City tried to take it down, but it managed to touch down in the fortress's tiny courtyard, sending gusts of wind whirling around Project Purity. A panel in the side slid open, and an enclave officer waved Narg inside.

The interior was a cramped space with low seats so small that with his power armour, Narg could barely fit into them. When he stood, he had to bend over to avoid smacking his helmet on the dull brown roof. The officer accompanying him edged past to the pilot and tapped him on the shoulder.

"We've got the Chosen One. Let's go."

Narg gave his little squad one last wave as the door slid shut. The rotors began to turn, causing the entire craft to vibrate as it lifted up into the air. Narg stood in the center of the cabin, gripping the handles which ran along the roof of the aircraft. The enclave officer turned back to him, sliding the door between the cabin and the passenger area shut.

Narg fle thte sensation of movement, but he knew immediately something was off. The Vertibird was turning too far, and in the wrong direction. The enclave officer standing in front of him was wearing an innocent look.

Far too innocent.

Something was wrong.

"Where are we going?" Narg asked carefully.

"Just stay calm, sir." The officer said reassuringly.

"Rivet City's that way." Narg pointed back towards the rear of the aircraft. "What exactly are you guys trying to pull?"

As he spoke the officer went pale. They stared at each other for a breathless moment, then the man pulled out his plasma pistol and pointed it at Narg with a trembling hand. "You're coming with us. You're under arrest for the destruction of American Government Property, the murder of American Citizens, and the assassination of President Richardson. Stand down, or I'll be forced to-"

"You've got to be fucking kidding me." Narg grabbed the man's hand, frcing the energy pistol away. The officer managed to get a shot off, which whizzed over Narg's shoulder and melted a patch of the ceiling. The Chosen One's other hand rammed four times into the man's face, knocking him silly, and driving him to his knees. Gripping him by the throat, Narg dragged him over to the hatch and pulled the bright red emergency release lever. Wind filled the cabin. Red lights flashed and Alarms blared. Down below, Narg could see that they were passing over the west bank of the Potomac, and away from the battle.

"When you want something done right…" He muttered, tossing his prisoner out the open hatch. He crossed the cabin, hand over hand, and began to beat against the cockpit hatch, striking dents deeper and deeper into the metal until light shone through a thin tear. He rammed his fist through, and when he pulled back, the pilot fire a few laser beams through the hole, scorching the breastplate of Narg's armour.

Narg grabbed the ragged edges of the tear and began to peel the door open from the center, twisting and bending the metal until he could see the pilot, who fired off another three beams over his shoulder. Narg was forced to duck aside for a moment, but he came back and ripped the laser pistol out of the pilot's hands, pressing it to his prisoner's skull. "Turn around."

"I can't do that, sir."

"Turn the fuck around or I'll throw you right through the canopy."

"You're under arrest, sir. Please cooperate."

"You guys are ridiculous." Narg kicked and scrambled his way into the cockpit, utterly destroying the door in the process. They were just passing over the Arlington library when he tore away the pilot's straps and grabbed him by the back of the shirt. The Chosen one picked up the protesting Enclave pilot and threw him clear through the Vertibird's canopy. The pilot shrieked as he fell, vanishing for a moment below the nose of the aircraft, but reappearing as it too began to fall. He hit the parking lot outside the Arlington library and turned into a bright red speck.

Narg tore the pilot's seat out and tossed it into the crew cabin, the Vertibird was nearly in freefall, with alarms blaring at him from every panel. He grabbed the joystick, levelling off the aircraft, nd pulled it into a sharp turn, heading back towards Rivet City. Cold, harsh winds whipped past him through the broken canopy and out the open rear of the aircraft.

Within less than a minute, he was crossing the Potomac. Narg pulled back on the Vertibird's controls forcing it higher and higher above the battle. He could see Jackrum's forces off to his left, pinned in the killing fields between Project Purity and Rivet City. The broken bow of the aircraft carrier passed under him, and he could see the mutants firing rockets from the deck of the ship. When he judged he was directly over their heads, Narg cut the engines, putting the protesting aircraft into freefall. He saw a dozen yellow specks trailing black smoke flying up from the deck to meet him as he fell, and he leapt from the aircraft, pushing away with his feet, and aiming for the largest orange shape on the flight deck.

The rockets slipped past him, filling the air with smoke. Behind him, he heard them impact the broken Vertibird. It exploded, showering the sky with radiation and debris. Narg was more concerned with the Supermutant overlord below him. He had around a second and a half to register its shocked expression and curl into a ball before he hit it in the chest. Its soft flesh cushioned the blow, but the force of the impact still sent Narg and what little was left of the overlord right through the flight deck. They slammed into the floor a deck and half below, leaving a deep crater in the corrugated deck plates of Rivet City's market.

Shocked silence fell as every Joint in Narg's body let out a twinge of protest. He could taste blood. Groaning, he pulled off his helmet and spat a gob of blood and spit down into the gorey morass which used to be a Supermutant Overlord. A white tooth shone against the red. One of his own, he discovered, after a moment's investigate. He scowled and spat another gob on top of the first.

He rose to his feet and dusted himself off, wiping some of the gore from his arms and shoulders. His armour had dampened most of the impact. It had been a powerful piece of equipment when he had first taken it from Frank Horrigan. The Vault Dweller's upgrades had exponentially improved upon its original design. It had been a long time since Narg had put it to the test like this. Hell, it had been a longer time since he'd had this much fun.

About ten meters ahead of him was a sandbag barricade. Around thirty members of Rivet City security were bunkered down there, rifles levelled straight across at him. They looked stunned and surprised by his entrance. Narg glanced backwards to see what they had been aiming at. Around forty mutants were standing at the far end of the Markets, toting their own weapons and looking equally as startled by his sudden appearance.

"Howdy, boys…" Narg slipped his helmet on and hefted his super sledgehammer, "Let's get down to business."

* * *

><p>The Brotherhood scattered, even as the abomination tore Glade's weapon from his hand and smashed it against the concrete ground. It launched itself into the small band, kicking and snarling as its grasping hands hunted for a target. Its foot landed in Kodiak's gut, sending the Paladin flying across the room, only to curl up and lay still. A brotherhood solider managed to get four rounds off, three of them striking the monster in the abdomen. Yet as fast as the wounds opened, they closed again.<p>

Snarling, the creature grabbed the unfortunate soldier by the shoulderpads and whipped him clear overhead, bringing him down on one of the rusted beams, skewering him neatly.

"Run!" Glade ordered. Two other Brotherhood soldiers bolted form the entrance. The last laying down his life to buy his brother's time. He kneeled and opened fire on the supermutant creation, which moved from side to side, dodging the incoming bullets.

It reached the poor man in seconds and rammed its fist straight through his rib cage, wasting no time in moving to his comrades. It caught them in the doorway, and beat them against the concrete walls until there was nothing left.

Glade scampered to the iron beams and grabbed his dead brother's assault rifle. He levelled it at the shadowy silhouette in the doorway and opened fire. The beast turned, glowing eyes narrowing upon him, even as he emptied his clip. Glade reloaded as the creature burst towards him with incredible speed. It threw itself across the floor of the cistern, gaining ground meters at every step.

Glade slapped a new magazine into place as it reached him, arm raised for a killing strike.

A shot rang out from Glade's left, and a bullet passed neatly through the abomination's skull. It pirouetted neatly, bouncing off the rusted beam underneath which Glade had taken cover, and fell into the flood pool, sinking down below the murky surface.

Panting, Glade backed away, rifle pointed shakily at the still waters. He glanced across the room at Paladin Kodiak, his savior. The younger soldier was sitting on the ground, legs out and rifle levelled. His breath was labored and harsh, and his grip was equally shaky.

"Thanks, Greg." Glade whispered, his throat dry.

A bubble rose to the surface of the pond, and Glade backed away further, reaching down to give Paladin Greg a hand up.

Another bubble rose up and popped. Then a third, echoing loudly in the silence.

"Let's get the fuck out of here!" Greg urged.

Glade nodded and they retreated down the hall, stepping over the bodies of their comrades, and away from the silent, eerie flood pools.

* * *

><p>Things had only gotten worse for Jackrum's army. They were pinned down, bleeding troops, and being forced slowly back from Rivet City. He had watched as the Vertibird landed at Project Purity and took off. Just as his hopes had been raised by the Chosen One's success in almost single-handedly taking the fortress, so too had they been dashed when the Vertibird turned tail and began to fly back west, carrying the most effect warrior in his army with it.<p>

At that same moment, he noticed a definite drift in the movements of the Enclave troops across the battlefield. They were retreating, step by step, just a little faster than the Wastelanders were being forced by the defending mutant army.

They were retreating, he realized. He turned away from the skirmish lines, and ran back through his troops, searching for Turner and more importantly, young Officer Campbell, his protégé's sweetheart. As he moved, several supermutants took pot shots at him. Bullets nipped at his heels, and he sped up, ducking as he ran.

He found them bunkered down behind a hunk of concrete at the northern end of the battlefront. Turner gave him a grim look as he approached, and he realized the young man already knew. Young Campbell was there as well, yelling obscenities into her headset.

"Sir-" Turner began, but Jackrum shove him aside and tore the headset off of Campbell's face. He ducked against the concrete barrier and screamed into it. "Summers! What the hell are you doing? We had a deal!"

There were barely any Enclave troopers left on the front lines. The wastelanders were being pushed back at a much faster rate than before, leaving their dead behind as they skipped back from cover to cover in something approaching a full retreat.

"_I'm pulling out Commander," _Summers explained firmly. _"We're down to thirty-five percent strength, and I've lost over half my vertibirds in this stupid battle."_

"We had a deal!" he roared hoarsely.

"_I've been given new orders. We'll wait until you're dead. Then we'll take what we want and head west. You primitives aren't worth the cost of good American lives. For the record, I'm sorry Jackrum"_

"If I ever see you again, I'm going to shoot you in the fucking face you fucking bitch!" Jackrum hurled the headset away. It bounced against the pavement and shattered. "Fucking bitch!"

He glared at Campbell. "You running too, you coward?"

"No sir!" She replied, tossing away her enclave officer's cap, and taking up a rifle from a fallen wastelanders. "I'm on your side."

"Jackrum!" Turner said, pausing in his carefully aimed rifle shots. "Commander, we can still take Project Purity! We'll have the fortress."

"Get the army inside it. We'll see if we can't bleed the muties dry before we run out of bullets." They would just have to hope the Brotherhood had completed its mission. Jackrum knew that if Brutus were still in command, all hope was truly lost.

The Wasteland forces had been thrown into a full retreat. Mercs and wasters alike streamed into the concrete maze which surrounded Project Purity. Hunting rifles and assault rifles on the same ramparts which the Chosen One had cleared began to spray bullets at the mutant lines.

Enclave Vertibirds were crossing the river a few blocks north, near the destroyed bridge. Most of their armoured troops were heading in that direction for a pickup. To Jackrum's surprise a few, like Campbell, had chosen to stay and fight.

A few wastelanders, realizing they had been betrayed, fired off volleys at the retreating armoured bullets bounced harmlessly off the enclave armour, but when the troopers returned fire, they cut down close to a dozen enraged wasteland fighters.

Across the battlefield, heavily armoured Overlords had formed a long line, stretching from the northern buildings all the way to the river. They were carrying the rusted husks of ancient cars in front of them, and advancing slowly, like riot police. Behind them, columns of mutants assembled, preparing for an assault on the newly liberated Project Purity.

Behind them, Jackrum caught sight of a distant shape. The dark-skinned, armoured mutant king, carrying a sword made from the blade of a Vertibird. Brutus was alive and well. The Brotherhood had failed.

* * *

><p>Glade had not traveled through the sub-basement of Project Purity in over twenty years. His memory of the layout was foggy, and the paths themselves had changed since the Purifier's sabotage. It was more mazelike than before, and devoid of mutants, all of whom had been called up to assist in the battle taking place above.<p>

He led Kodiak through winding passages, and up every flight of stairs he could find. As they passed through a generator room, they heard the enraged roar of the abomination. They exchanged grim looks; neither of them had expected that Kodiak's lucky shot had killed the creature. It was the Lone Wanderer after all. No one could kill the Lone Wanderer. Their only hope was to get far enough away from it that it wouldn't find them.

Their hopes were dashed as they reached the second level. They were walking through a wide room which overlooked the flood pools one level below. It was separated by a chain-link fence, but otherwise quite exposed.

Glade and Kodiak charged up a flight of stairs, past the very medical bay where the Wanderer had been born, and into the overlook. With another roar, the abomination came crashing through the chainlink fence, and slide to a halt in front of them. It was hunched and panting. Aside from a small trickle of blood, there was no sign at all of Kodiak's shot.

The tall, wiry figure glared at them with glowing green eyes, hands opening and closing with each breath. Water from the flood pond dripped down and formed small puddles at its feet.

Glade and Kodiak both opened up with their assault rifles. Yet even as the bullets ate away chunks of flesh, the Wanderer grew them back. It advanced more slowly this time, holding up an arm to shield its face from the bullets.

"Go, boss!" Kodiak shouted, "I'll hold it off!"

"No way!" If Glade he was going to die, he'd do it beside his brother. He dropped his rifle and charged at the creature, drawing a combat knife. It easily batted him aside. It was like being hit in the gut with a steel girder. Glade felt a couple ribs crack, but the impact also sent him flying right out the hole in the chain-link fence. He was airborne for a moment before he landed in the flood pool with a massive splash. The overlook above flashed for a few more seconds, lit by gunfire. Then there was a sharp crack and the noise ceased.

Coughing and groaning, Glade pulled himself out of the pool and onto the bank. He dragged himself to his knees, and was getting to his feet when the Abomination landed beside him, snarling and gnashing its teeth. It grabbed Glade by the throat and slammed him into the nearest wall.

The creature raised his hand for the killing blow, and Glade brought his own arm up protectively in a last, desperate attempt to shield himself. In his inner eye he saw what had happened to his brothers, and he realized that his life was about to end.

…but the blow never came. A long second passed, stretching to an infinity. Then another. The beast's grip on Glade's throat loosened slightly and he managed a shallow breath.

The creature was staring at Glade's forearm, and the red bandana which was wrapped around it. It twitched and snarled, glaring at the cloth, searching it. All the while its breathing was hot, heavy and ragged.

Its grip loosened, and Glade slid to the damp floor, coughing, and holding his arm out like a shield. The creature took a step back and roared at him. But there was a spark of something in its eyes. Sadness? Curiosity? Uncertainty?

Glade fumbled with the knot, and slipped the square off of his forearm. He gripped it tightly in his fist and held it up like a talisman to ward off the beast. "This was yours!" he rasped, his voice ragged. "This was yours!"

The creature let out a feral scream and backed away at few steps.

"This is yours!" Glade proclaimed, gaining strength as he realized the power the object held. The creature's eyes had left it. They were racing back and forth, seeing nothing before it, lost in a sudden flood of memories and emotion the injection was supposed to expunge. "You are the Lone Wanderer from Vault 101. The Ranger of the Wastes! The Vault legend! Not some mutant abomination!"

The creature fell to its knees and howled, grasping at its own head. Glade fought to his feet and took a step forward, waving the bandana. "Remember! You have to remember! You drove the Enclave away, gave the wasteland fresh water! You're our defender! You're our messiah! The wasteland is in trouble and we need you now more than ever! You're the Lone Wanderer and your name is Jason Howlett!"

The beast stared down in horror at its own clawed hands. Then it drove its fist into the concrete leaving a small crater and a web of fissures. The crack of the impact echoed sharply off the walls of the massive cistern.

"Saa…." It hissed. "Saaa….!"

"Jason?" Glade asked quietly.

The beast looked up and met his gaze. There was something human in its eyes, something pleading. "Saah…" It said again.

"Saah? I don't…" Glade shrugged helplessly

"Saah…" it tried again, "Saaahh… Saah… Saaahr!" It growled in frustration and landed another blow on the floor, blasting another shallow crater into the concrete. It looked back up at Glade, and whispered, "Saahraah."

"Sarah…? Sarah's dead."

The monster roared in denial.

"She's dead."

Both fists slammed into the concrete, and the beast went completely still. Glade watched in breathless silence as it slowly looked up, but when he looked into its eyes, he saw the Lone Wanderer staring back, filled with rage. The Wanderer looked up at him and growled one word:

"_Bbbrrruutttuuussss…"_


End file.
